Hurry Up Tomorrow

FULL SPOILER-FREE REVIEW @ https://movieswetextedabout.com/hurry-up-tomorrow-movie-review-fame-depression-and-a-stylistic-blur-of-misfires/ "Hurry Up Tomorrow is one of the most convoluted, frustrating movies of the year. A glaring example of how style can drown substance, and how unchecked artistic ego can turn a potentially compelling work into an exercise in hollow self-indulgence. Despite some undeniable visual qualities and earnest performances from the cast, Trey Edward Shults and Abel “The Weeknd” Tesfaye fall short on all essential fronts: narrative, structure, emotion, and purpose. It's a murky experience that leaves viewers perplexed and distant - a wasted opportunity for everyone involved." Rating: D

And here was me thinking that “Gen. Klytus” has been impaled on some spikes back in 1980, but no. Here he returns singing some of the songs of “The Weeknd” (a.k.a Abel Tesfaye) in this confused and messy dawdle into the realms of pop star, drug/drink-induced delirium. He’s clearly a man in distress as we discover his girlfriend has dumped him and his rather obsessive manager “Lee” (Barry Keoghan) is only bothered about him getting on that stage. To be fair, when he does the cinema sound of the man’s array of hits does some justice to the impressive light shows but once we get off the stage, we find ourselves in a story that appears to be autobiographical, or semi, anyway. Anyway, one night it all gets too much for him and he determines to get the hell out of dodge - only to spot the young arsonist “Anima” (Jenny Ortega) amongst the crowd of thousands and they go off for a night from which both have differing expectations. With poor old “Lee” frazzling as he has no idea where his mealticket “bro” is and these two in a luxury hotel room dissecting and intellectualising the profundity of the lyrics to “Blinding Lights” the story assumes a degree of aggressive silliness that shows that whilst she can certainly dance, Ortega is nowhere near her best on the acting front and he, well I’m not sure he was ever at the races there at all. Keoghan might just steal this. His characterisation of the venal supporter who plays up, quite spectacularly, to the ego of his talent with some quite powerful superlatives and loads of cocaine and booze might actually inject a little more truth into the backstage power plays that go on when millions are at stake - even when medical advice is to take a break. (Sadly, we are not offered that advice in the cinema!). This is clearly a labour of love for Tesfaye and the director but for the rest of us, this just comes across as a vanity project designed to showcase the music of “The Weeknd” whilst padding out a series of catwalk-style performances with some psycho-babble that frequently looks as if it were filmed inside a lava lamp. Maybe just stream the music and leave this overlong piece of self-indulgence for a streamer somewhere?