“Nobody ever loved me that much” is the best line in “Casablanca” (1942). So say two friends chatting in a bar in New York—one of whom is the bartender, which tells us a great deal about the other one. “I went directly from childhood to washed-up,” says the customer, Lorenz (Larry) Milton Hart, who will in fact shortly be dead.
“Blue Moon” (Sony Pictures Classics), showing now at the Montrose Playhouse, is—with the exception of the brief prologue showing Larry’s death and a scene in the theatre at the opening night of the musical “Oklahoma”—like a stage play, all on one set, that of the barroom, and structured as a rambling conversation over one night. The idea of framing a profile out of a character’s meanderings, as compared with the traditional chronology, is deeply satisfying. Larry is half of the “Rodgers and Hart” Broadway-songwriting partnership which ran from 1919 until 1943, when Larry died, at which point the more famous “Rodgers and Hammerstein” partnership (which created “Oklahoma”) took its place. The night upon which the film takes place turns the page between the two.
The venue has two floors. The long downstairs bar, which is purposely positioned in the centre of the set, is the kind of place where the bartender constantly polishes glasses. Larry sits at one side of the bar, head just popping above the counter, and one suited arm resting lengthways along it, invariably holding a half-chewed cigar. He is a steady customer. He is motormouthed, normally upbeat and boastful and delusional, but subject to bouts of resentful self-pity. “We were on the cover of ‘Time’ Magazine,” say, or, “It [“Oklahoma”] is so inoffensive. But who really wants inoffensive art?” He displays a creepy obsession over a female twenty-year-old student (whom everyone else can see is only interested in his ability to secure an introduction to Oscar Hammerstein), but at once eying up much younger men, inviting these men to a party later that evening. A gentle-mannered, young, male soldier plays soothing music continuously on the grand piano and indulges Larry.
Upstairs, a formally-dressed entourage of the sort of show-business types that want to be seen have gathered to celebrate “Oklahoma” in the company of Mr Rodgers and Mr Hammerstein, responding with whoops of laughter as every positive media review is breathlessly read out. Larry is not welcome upstairs; he is, indeed, washed up, a has-been.
Ethan Hawke’s performance as the actor in a play all about himself is commanding and flamboyant and convincing. Larry is the self-regarding artist who loves to be the centre of attention, who believes that others want or need his company, and is ignorant of his own conceit—“I saw ‘Porgy and Bess’ more than every other person in New York.” In fact he is a bore and a windbag. “I got to talk to someone,” he says at one point—but he talks at people and can’t conceive of the possibility that they would prefer not to be part of that conversation. And when he says, “I’m a great listener,” we snort with derision. Mr Hawke’s triumph is powered by an outrageously good screenplay—in particular, numerous envious descriptions of “Oklahoma”; “A fourteen-carat piece of shit;” “The show is fraudulent on every single level;” “What can I say about Oscar [Hammerstein]? He’s so [long pause] earthbound;” “People roaring at third rate jokes!”
Three important characters stay fixed as Larry strides to-and-fro on the stage. The first is the pianist, whose grand piano is on the right of the bar; the second is the bartender, whom Larry calls “just an extra” at one point, constantly behind the bar in the centre; and the third is E.B. White, a writer whom Larry seems to admire and who sits at the nearest of a row of two-person square tables covered with white tablecloths to the left. “I’m in love with your punctuation,” Larry says, “you can’t move a single comma.” (Mr White is also gifted with some great lines, such as “The adjective ‘great’ should never precede the word ‘war;’” “All this jubilation has gone to my bladder.”) The use of these characters is ingenious as it reminds us that the film takes place over one evening; in addition, they provide an audience for Larry. (I noticed that the piano music, composed by Graham Reynolds, never stops.)
Finally the stage is set for the arrival of Dick Rodgers, played by Andrew Scott, who “has that same New York look of doomed hopefulness.” Larry stretches and switches gear. “Now for the real performance of the day,” he purrs, billboarding “Oklahoma” as ”the greatest musical in this history of American theatre.” “‘Oklahoma,’” he promises Dick, “is going to be the biggest hit of your career.” He flatters Dick because he needs something—another chance. Dick both thinks that Larry’s suggestion—a musical about Marco Polo with a starring role for the twenty year old—a bad one, but also that Larry is flaky. He declines. “It’s a business, that’s all,” he says, soberly. One pivotal scene is on the staircase halfway between the two bars—Mr Scott cooly competent and oozing success, Mr Hawke desperate and fickle. Then Mr Scott lifts his head proudly, and mounts the remaining stairs to join the party in his honour; Mr Hawke tiptoes back downstairs to his lonely bar stool, empty-handed.
Adding a notable writer as a character present that evening emphasises the precision of the script’s wording—punctuation doesn’t matter that much in dialog but the tense of verbs does. Larry’s career is described in the past tense—a futile attempt to rekindle the golden days, before the drink took him. Initially Larry is flattering, “You worked to whole life for this night, Dick,” he says. “I owe my professional life to you,” Dick replies. “You are unique.” But then Larry catches on. “Sounds like you’re writing my obituary,” he says. Then, later, to the audience, “There was so much more I wanted to say to him.”
Adam Poole
14th December 2025
If you are interested in viewing this screening, please book your tickets here
