Lance Avery Morgan
In Their Ninth Collaboration, Two Of Texas’ Most Beloved Storytellers Deliver A Film That’s Equal Parts Poetry, Whiskey, And Revelation. “Blue Moon” Is What Happens When Cinematic Soulmates Follow Their Muse Under The Texas Sky, Even When The Story Takes Place In Manhattan.
There’s something ineffably Texan about the new, and much-touted film, “Blue Moon.” It’s not set in Austin, Houston, or even Marfa. Still, the film’s pulse, its quiet confidence, its refusal to rush, and its curiosity about the human soul are pure Texas through and through, according to our cineaste, Lance Avery Morgan, who spotlights the Oscar-contender film directed by Richard Linklater and starring Ethan Hawke.
Photography courtesy of Sony Pictures Classics Illustration courtesy of Lance Avery Morgan
In the latest collaboration between Richard Linklater and Ethan Hawke, the state’s two patron saints of cinematic introspection have delivered something rare in modern filmmaking: a chamber piece that feels like an epic, a biopic that hums like poetry, and a performance that burns slow but leaves a long afterglow.
At its surface, Blue Moon tells the story of Lorenz Hart, the brilliant but tortured lyricist of Rodgers & Hart fame, as he wanders through one long New York night in 1943, the same evening Oklahoma! premieres without him. But what unfolds in this smoke-swirled, whiskey-soaked reverie at Sardi’s is less about Broadway than about legacy, love, and the artist’s eternal tango with his own reflection. The film’s costars, Andrew Scott as Richard Rodgers, Bobby Cannavale, and Margaret Qualley, are perfectly cast in their roles.
When The Storytelling Is The State
Texans have always had a yen, and an ear, for storytelling; not the kind that shouts, but the kind that leans back in its chair and lets a sentence breathe. Linklater built his empire on that rhythm: Slacker, Dazed and Confused, Before Sunrise, Boyhood; all stories that ask, in their own unhurried way, what it means to live a life worth remembering.
In Blue Moon, he brings that exact unvarnished authenticity to Hart’s last night on earth. The camera doesn’t flinch, and neither does the dialogue. It lingers in silence, lets its characters stumble and shine, and trusts its audience to listen, something that feels as refreshingly honest as a Hill Country sunset.
‘Round Midnight Transformation
Ethan Hawke, the Austin native who has evolved from indie darling to national treasure to soulful Texan sage, embodies Lorenz Hart with a staggering blend of heartbreak and humility. It’s a performance that’s both unrecognizable and deeply personal.
Linklater, a long-time collaborator and kindred spirit, reportedly told Hawke years ago he wasn’t yet old enough to play Hart. Now, after decades of artistic exploration and creative risk, Hawke carries the weight of experience, and it shows. His Hart is funny, bitter, romantic, self-loathing, and endlessly searching. In other words, he’s an artist trying to find his song again. Trying to find a song that will fill his own heart, instead of the many millions whose hearts have soared listening to his musical phrasing talents for decades.
This marks the duo’s ninth successful collaboration in a partnership that’s as quintessentially Texan as Willie and Waylon; two craftsmen who refuse to chase trends when truth will do just fine.
A Lone Star Lens
For all its period detail and Broadway sparkle, Blue Moon feels like it could take place in a quiet Austin bar after closing time, maybe Donn’s Depot or The Aristocrat, just two souls talking about what could have been. That’s the Linklater gift: he finds the cosmic in the conversational, the mythic in the mundane.
There’s a certain melancholy in the film that Texans know well; the kind that hangs in the air long after the music stops at Gruene Hall or lingers in the glow of a porch light after midnight with plenty of moths encircling it. It’s the space between pride and regret, between “I could’ve” and “I did.”
That space between is where Blue Moon lives.
The Art Of Time, The Poetry Of Place
Much like Boyhood and the Before trilogy, Blue Moon isn’t afraid of time; it reveres it. Linklater has always treated time like another character, a living, breathing force that shapes and humbles. And in Blue Moon, time becomes the quiet antagonist, whispering to Hart that every artist eventually faces the encore no one asked for.
But that’s also where Texas comes in. Texans don’t fear time; they size it up, nod, and keep going. The land, after all, has seen centuries of comebacks and heartbreaks. Maybe that’s why the film resonates so deeply here, because it reminds us that even at the end of the road, there’s still a song worth singing.
Quietly Masterful
When the credits roll on Blue Moon, what lingers isn’t the tragedy; it’s the tenderness that is gripping. The same kind of tenderness that runs through Linklater’s best work and Hawke’s most fearless roles. It’s about friendship, failure, and the audacity to keep creating even when no one’s listening.
Like the best Texas stories, it’s full of imperfections, a little bruised, a little brilliant, and beautifully human.
And maybe that’s the real trick of Blue Moon: two Texans reminding the world that great art doesn’t always come with fireworks or fanfare. Sometimes, it’s just two people talking in the dark, and finding, in the silence, a kind of grace.
Surely, the world is about to fall in love with this film, Oscar contender worthiness aside, since it looms like a haunting Lorenz Hart lyrical refrain from the eponymous title. Its simple simple words evoke the profound isolation Hart felt throughout his life. The “blue moon” represents a beautiful ideal of romance that he was always on the outside looking in on a life that couldn’t have a destination of genuine happiness.
To learn more about the Austin film scene and the Texas Film Awards March 2026, visit Austin Film Society
