‘Jay Kelly’ San Sebastian Review: Hollywood Navel-Gazing in Noah Baumbach’s Latest (Netflix)

Every filmmaker eventually hits their Fellini moment—the urge to riff on 8 ½, often mixed with a dose of Bergman’s Wild Strawberries. Few pull it off (see Woody Allen’s Deconstructing Harry, one of the weakest entries from his stronger years), and Noah Baumbach is no exception. The twist here is that Jay Kelly doesn’t chart a filmmaker’s creative block and existential crisis, but that of an actor. In this case, George Clooney—or rather Jay Kelly, a thinly veiled version of what one imagines Clooney’s life might look like.

Baumbach, known for comedies and dramas of varying intensity (Marriage Story, The Meyerowitz Stories, Frances Ha), dives headlong into a geographic and psychological odyssey about a Hollywood megastar who suddenly realizes he may have been living life all wrong. The film opens with an elaborate long take: Kelly finishing a death scene on set, then immediately surrounded and pampered by half a dozen assistants. The world quite literally revolves around him—he is the center of the universe.

His entourage works around the clock, often at the expense of their own lives and families. His manager Ron (Adam Sandler) is devoted, but also has a wife (played briefly by Greta Gerwig, Baumbach’s real-life partner) and children who demand his attention. Later we meet Liz (Laura Dern), a longtime publicist who seems equally loyal. Like Clooney in real life, Kelly may be a megastar, but he works hard—too hard, perhaps—to come across as approachable and almost normal.

Two events push him into crisis. First, his teenage daughter (Grace Edwards) chooses to travel through Europe with friends rather than spend time with him before heading off to college—that crucial American rite of passage after which parents and children supposedly never see each other the same way again. Kelly wants to use the break before shooting a scrappy indie (by a pair of New York brothers straight out of the Safdie mold) to reconnect with her, but she makes it clear it’s too little, too late.

The second blow comes with the death of Peter Schneider (Jim Broadbent), a lifelong filmmaker friend who sank into despair after failing to finance new projects. Kelly is tormented by the thought that he could have helped—by acting in one of those projects—but never did. A third crisis emerges at the funeral, where he reunites with Timothy (Billy Crudup), an old acting-class friend who never made it. After a night of drinks and laughter, Timothy bluntly tells him he hates him and blames him for stealing the role that might have changed his life.

These stacked regrets prompt Kelly to cut loose, put his new project on hold, and fly to Europe—first to France to track down his daughter, then to Italy to accept a career award at a boutique festival. The trip is mounted like a military operation: private jet, multiple cars, helicopters if needed, a small army of staff. Baumbach uses the journey to confront Kelly with his past and present, weaving in flashbacks that revisit his fraught relationships with old friends, ex-wives, daughters (Riley Keough plays the other one, with whom he has an even worse relationship), and his father. All the while, Ron remains close, both loyal and quietly resentful of a client who at one point treats him like furniture.

The problem is that Jay Kelly rarely escapes the navel-gazing trap of “sad rich man syndrome”—a superstar bemoaning the family time he sacrificed for career, money, and fame. The film flirts constantly with narcissism, and while it delivers moments of humor, pain, and sly industry in-jokes, it ultimately wallows in self-pity. By the time Kelly reaches Italy, increasingly abandoned by his entourage, Baumbach tries to frame his life’s “balance sheet” around the joy he’s given audiences through his roles. But the gesture feels lazy and even disingenuous.

Baumbach has never been a visually inventive filmmaker—his strengths lie in dialogue and character work—but Jay Kelly feels especially clumsy and unattractive, dotted with postcard landscapes that add little. The film’s late attempt at an commedia all’italiana tone is particularly ill-fitting. Clooney and Sandler do their best to wring coherence out of the material, but nothing quite gels.

What keeps the film from sinking entirely is the cast, a starry lineup few directors could assemble today. Beyond those mentioned, there are turns from Patrick Wilson, Josh Hamilton, Alba Rohrwacher, Eve Hewson, Isla Fisher, Lars Eidinger, veteran Stacy Keach as Kelly’s father, and Emily Mortimer—who also co-wrote the script. Yet their presence only amplifies the sense of Hollywood patting itself on the back, as if to say: Yes, we may have been terrible parents, bad friends, selfish people—but we entertained millions, so doesn’t that count for something? The trouble is, on the evidence of Jay Kelly, the argument just doesn’t hold.