lyricist

Many actors talk about process but Ethan Hawke has made the act of creation central to his work. He’s played musicians and writers and when he’s gone behind the camera, he’s focused on the stories of composers, novelists, movie stars and country singers both famous and forgotten. Sometimes, it feels like he’s the unofficial patron saint of art suffering, fixated on the glory and anguish of putting yourself out there in the world.

So Hawke’s portrayal of Lorenz Hart, the brilliant but troubled lyricist responsible for beloved tunes like “My Funny Valentine,” in a story set shortly before his death would seem to be just the latest chapter of a lifelong obsession. But “Blue Moon,” Hawke’s ninth collaboration with director Richard Linklater, cuts deeper than any of his previous explorations. Imagining Hart on the night of his former collaborator Richard Rodgers’ greatest triumph — the launch of “Oklahoma!” — Linklater offers a wistful look at a songwriter past his prime. But the film wouldn’t resonate as powerfully without Hawke’s nakedly vulnerable portrayal.

It is March 31, 1943, eight months before Hart’s death at age 48 from pneumonia, and Hart has just gruffly left the Broadway premiere of “Oklahoma!” Arriving early at Sardi’s for the after-party, he plants himself at the bar, complaining to bartender Eddie (Bobby Cannavale) that the show will be a massive success — and that it’s garbage. Eddie nods in a way that suggests he’s often lent a sympathetic ear to Hart’s rantings, allowing him to unload about the show’s supposedly banal lyrics and corn-pone premise and, worst of all, the fact that Rodgers will have his biggest smash the moment he stops working with Hart after nearly 25 years. “This is not jealousy speaking,” Hart insists, fooling no one.

As played by Hawke, Hart adores holding court, entertaining his captive audience with witty put-downs and gossipy Broadway anecdotes. Begging Eddie not to serve him because of his drinking problem, which contributed to the dissolution of his partnership with Rodgers, this impudent carouser would be too much to stand if he also wasn’t such fun company. But eventually, Rodgers (Andrew Scott) and his new lyricist Oscar Hammerstein II (Simon Delaney) are going to walk through that door and Hart will have to swallow his pride and pretend to be happy for them. From one perspective, “Blue Moon” is about the beginning of “Oklahoma!” as a pillar of American theater. From another, it’s Hart’s funeral.

Set almost exclusively inside Sardi’s, “Blue Moon” has the intimacy of a one-man stage show. After Hart vents about “Oklahoma!,” he readies himself for the arrival of Elizabeth (Margaret Qualley), a gorgeous Yale undergrad he considers his protégée. (He also claims to be in love with her, which baffles Eddie, who rightly assumed otherwise.) If the universal acclaim of “Oklahoma!” will force Hart to confront his professional irrelevance, maybe Elizabeth’s beaming presence — and the promise of them consummating their feelings — will be sufficient compensation.

Linklater, the man behind “School of Rock” and “Me and Orson Welles,” has made several films about creativity. (In a few weeks, he’ll debut another movie, “Nouvelle Vague,” which focuses on the making of Jean-Luc Godard’s epochal “Breathless.”) But what distinguishes “Blue Moon” is that, for once, it’s about someone else’s achievement — not the main character. Fearing he’s a has-been, the diminutive, balding Hart slowly succumbs to self-loathing. He can still spitefully quote the negative reviews for his 1940 musical “Pal Joey.” And he nurses a paranoid pet theory that Rodgers decided to collaborate with Hammerstein because he’s so much taller than Hart. (“Blue Moon” incorporates old-fashioned camera tricks to help Hawke resemble Hart’s under-five-feet frame.) Linklater’s movies have frequently featured affable underdogs, but by contrast, “Blue Moon” is an elegy to a bitter, insecure man whose view of himself as a failure has become a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Of the many artists Hawke has honored on screen, he has never depicted one so touchingly diminished — someone so consumed with envy who nonetheless cannot lie to himself about the beauty of the art around him. Turning 55 next month, Hawke shares with Hart an effusive passion for indelible work but also, perhaps, a nagging anxiety about the end of his creative usefulness. If he were younger, Hawke would have come across as self-regarding. Here, there’s only a poignantly egoless transparency, exposing the lyricist’s personal flaws — his drunkenness, his arrogance — while capturing the fragile soulfulness that made those Rodgers and Hart tunes sing.

Apropos of his relaxed approach, Linklater shoots “Blue Moon” with a minimum of fuss, but one can feel its enveloping melancholy, especially once the next generation of artists poke their head into the narrative. (Sondheim diehards will instantly identify the brash young composer identified only as “Stevie.”) But neither Linklater nor Hawke is sentimental about that changing of the guard.

That’s why Hawke breaks your heart. All of us are here for just a short time: We make our mark and then the ocean comes and washes it away. In an often remarkable career, Hawke has never embraced that truth so completely as he does here. Ultimately, maybe the work artists leave behind isn’t their most important contribution — maybe it’s the love they had for artistry itself, a passion that will inspire after they’re gone. That’s true of Lorenz Hart, and it will hopefully prove true of Hawke and this understated but profound film for years to come.

Alan Bergman, the decorated lyricist who over the course of seven decades penned songs including “The Windmills of Your Mind,” “The Way We Were,” and “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers” with wife Marilyn Bergman, has died. He was 99.

Bergman died late Thursday evening in his home in Los Angeles, family spokesperson Ken Sunshine confirmed in a statement to The Times on Friday. The songwriter “suffered from respiratory issues” in recent months but remained steadfast in his songwriting “till the very end.”

A Brooklyn native, Bergman was best known for his collaborations with his wife, Marilyn, which spanned music, television and film. The husband and wife, after meeting through composer Lew Spence, married in 1958. Together, they penned music for a variety of high-profile acts including Frank Sinatra, Ray Charles, Quincy Jones, John Williams and Barbra Streisand, with the last eventually becoming the couple’s muse.

The Bergmans were three-time Oscar winners. The couple won their first Oscar in 1969 for the moody “Windmills of Your Mind,” featured in “The Thomas Crown Affair,” shared with French composer Michel Legrand. Their second and third Oscar wins stemmed from works with Streisand: the title song from “The Way We Were” in 1974 (shared with Marvin Hamlisch) and in 1984 for the score of “Yentl,” shared with Legrand.

The composers and their work were consistent contenders at the Oscars, with their contributions to films “The Happy Ending,” “Tootsie,” “Yes, Giorgio” and the 1995 remake of Billy Wilder‘s “Sabrina” also receiving nominations from the academy. On the small screen, the Bergmans left their personal touch on numerous TV series from the 1970s to the 1990s, providing the theme music for shows including “Good Times,” “Alice,” “In the Heat of the Night” and Norman Lear’s “Maude.”

In addition to Oscars, the Bergmans also won four Emmys, two Golden Globes and two Grammys, including the song of the year award for “The Way We Were.”

Oscar-winning songwriters Alan and Marilyn Bergman at their home in 2008.

(Lawrence K. Ho / Los Angeles Times)

Alan Bergman, born Sept. 11, 1925 in Brooklyn, was a son of a salesman and knew from an early age that songwriting was his passion. He graduated from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and pursued his graduate studies in music at UCLA. He briefly worked as a television director for Philadelphia station WCAU-TV but returned to Los Angeles to fully pursue songwriting, at the behest of mentor Johnny Mercer.

Alan and Marilyn Bergman are members of the Songwriters Hall of Fame, which awarded the duo its Johnny Mercer Award in 1997. They also received the Grammy Trustee Award for lifetime achievement, the National Academy of Songwriters Lifetime Achievement Award, the National Music Publishers Assn. Lifetime Achievement Award and honorary doctorates from Berklee College of Music and the University of Massachusetts. In 2011, University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill honored Bergman with a distinguished alumnus award.

Marilyn Bergman died in January 2022 of respiratory failure at 93. After her death, Alan continued working, most recently collaborating with jazz guitarist Pat Metheny, who will record his nine songs co-written with Bergman later this year for an upcoming album.

Alan Bergman is survived by his daughter Julie Bergman and granddaughter Emily Sender. He will be laid to rest at a private graveside burial. Ruth Price’s Jazz Bakery announced earlier this month it would celebrate Bergman’s 100th birthday with a tribute concert at Santa Monica’s Broad Stage in September. The performance will go on as planned, The Times has learned.

The family ask that donations be made in Bergman’s name to the ASCAP Foundation Alan and Marilyn Bergman Lyric Award and the Johnny Mercer Foundation.

Times pop music critic Mikael Wood contributed to this report.