(3 stars)
There’s a lot to like about “Jay Kelly,” the unexpectedly sweet new film from director Noah Baumbach. It’s beautifully shot, bustles with strong performances by a roundly endearing cast and indulges in an old-Hollywood elegance well-suited to its story: the late-life crisis of its titular megastar, played — embodied, really — by George Clooney.
“It’s like a movie where I’m playing myself,” Jay tells his manager Ron (genially portrayed by Adam Sandler) as he struggles to unpack what’s eating him.
And truly, it’s all too easy to conflate George Clooney with Jay Kelly — the cadential echo of their names seems to insist we do. Like Jay, Clooney has been an action star, a romantic lead, a young man on screen and now, as Ron puts it, “the last of the old movie stars.” A tribute gala feting Jay opens with a highlight reel of Clooney in various roles. This smudging is intentional.
As such, Jay has spent so many years playing others that he’s forgotten the lines to his own life. He’s estranged from one daughter, Jessica (Riley Keough), and about to lose his second, Daisy (Grace Edwards), to young adulthood and quite possibly a young filmmaker she met in Paris. His star is gently fading; his name migrating from marquees to statuettes; Ron and Liz (his burned-out publicist, played with unfussy charm by Laura Dern) remain by his side out of a distorted model of friendship.
There’s an air of relic to Jay, and Clooney keenly plays him as increasingly aware of the odor. This vestigial vibe also authorizes Baumbach to indulge in some antique techniques of his own, as when Jay stumbles Scrooge-like into unflattering episodes from his past. (Charlie Rowe is convincingly cast as the young Jay.) We see his intrusion on a scene partner’s audition which twists both of their fates; his refusal to put his name on the project of a mentor hitting financial straits; his children playing at putting on a show (and attempting to hold their father’s attention).
While there’s a lot to like about “Jay Kelly,” there’s a lot to dislike about Jay Kelly. He’s vain, insensitive, capable of casual, smirking cruelty. A chance drink with his former acting-school roommate Timothy (a powerful, compact performance by Billy Crudup) finds Jay pulling his strings, compelling him to method-act the menu and burst into fake tears. The mood sours and the tension snaps: “Is there a person in there?” Timothy asks. “Maybe you don’t actually exist.”
Still, Jay must not be entirely unsympathetic. I felt a twinge of betrayal when Ron addressed his other client (and Jay’s rival) Ben Alcock (Patrick Wilson) with a pet name I’d assumed was reserved for Jay. And Clooney’s performance — warm, generously nuanced throughout — makes clear how so many people got sucked into the whirlpool of Jay’s stardom, right up until he starts circling the drain, that is.
Baumbach and co-writer Emily Mortimer scarcely miss an opportunity to insert thesis statements that feel either chiseled in marble or tucked into a fortune cookie: “Everything you thought you were isn’t true”; “All of my memories are movies”; “It’s a hell of a responsibility being yourself.” One after another, the liney lines come — and the effect is oddly (and pleasantly) nostalgic. The brisk quintet theme that follows Jay around, composed by Nicholas Britell, feels likewise tethered to a bygone era.
Those with a Sorkin-sensitivity may find themselves irritated by Baumbach and Mortimer’s go-go-go approach to dialogue here, but the rush of chatter and noise that buoys things along does help enhance the contrast of the film’s quiet detours, where Jay is forced to occupy his own memories.
Films within films are having a little moment (see: “Nouvelle Vague”), as are movies about distant fathers (see: “Sentimental Value”). But “Jay Kelly” feels like more than an elaborate meta-gimmick or a well-appointed character study. It’s a film about the uses (and abuses) of artifice: from Ron darkening Jay’s eyebrows with a Sharpie, to Jay playing at being a family man on a film set.
But “Jay Kelly” also comes off like a eulogy — Baumbach expressing his affection for a vanishing vision of Hollywood before time cheats him (and us) of the chance.
R. At area theaters. Contains mature language, immature men. 132 minutes.
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