The Last Movie Star: Why ‘Jay Kelly’ Feels Like a Gorgeous Goodbye to Old Hollywood
In what may be his most introspective performance to date, George Clooney takes on a role that feels almost uncomfortably close to home. Noah Baumbach’s latest cinematic offering, “Jay Kelly,” presents audiences with a masterclass in meta-storytelling—a film that examines the glittering facade of Hollywood stardom and the human cost lurking beneath its surface.
Clooney embodies Jay Kelly, a character whose name echoes his own with deliberate intention. Both men have inherited the mantle of old Hollywood glamour, both channel the spirit of legends like Clark Gable and Paul Newman, and both possess that increasingly rare quality—genuine movie star magnetism. Yet here’s where art diverges from reality: while Clooney has cultivated a reputation as a devoted family man and humanitarian activist, Jay Kelly represents an alternate universe where fame consumed everything else.
Kelly is a man who achieved his dreams but lost his soul in the process. His relentless pursuit of stardom has left a trail of broken relationships—estranged daughters, abandoned partners, and friendships reduced to transactional arrangements. His closest confidant is Ron Sukenick, played with characteristic warmth by Adam Sandler, who serves as both manager and the nearest thing Kelly has to a genuine friend. That their bond comes with a fifteen percent commission speaks volumes about the loneliness at the film’s core.
Baumbach, co-writing with Emily Mortimer, has crafted something remarkably layered—a film that operates simultaneously as character study, industry commentary, and elegiac love letter to a vanishing Hollywood era. It’s the kind of cinema where a single movie star could open a picture on charisma alone, a paradigm that feels increasingly antiquated in our franchise-dominated landscape. The film announces these intentions from its opening shot: a sweeping, unbroken take across a bustling soundstage that recalls Robert Altman’s “The Player,” establishing both technical virtuosity and thematic ambition.
What makes “Jay Kelly” particularly fascinating is its refusal to settle into a single register. It shifts between comedy and pathos, between insider baseball and universal human struggle. As Sandler articulates, the film transcends show business specificity to examine fundamental questions about priorities—the eternal tension between professional ambition and personal responsibility, between being successful and being present.
With over eighty speaking roles populated by performers carrying their own Hollywood histories, Baumbach has assembled something of a referendum on the industry itself. The result is both deeply personal—particularly for Clooney, who must confront this darkest timeline version of himself—and universally resonant for anyone who’s wondered whether their achievements justify their sacrifices.
“Jay Kelly” arrives as something bittersweet: a wistful acknowledgment that an era is ending, delivered by some of its last great practitioners.
