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R
for language throughout, drug use, some bloody violence and brief nudity.
Starring
Abel Tesfaye, Jenna Ortega, Barry Keoghan, Olga Safari, Riley Keough
Director
Trey Edward Shults
Producer
Kevin Turen, Reza Fahim, Harri
Genres
Thriller
Drama
Released by
Lionsgate on
5/16/2025
Nationwide
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Trailer
Review
I guess this is what narcissism looks like. Or at least a vanity project run amok. It's a pity because I enjoyed director Trey Edward Shults' 2017 horror movie, It Comes at Night. But this isn't really about Shults; it's about The Weeknd. Or, more appropriately, it's about The Weeknd's ego. Part music video, part bizarro psychological thriller, and part David Lynch-inspired descent into existential purgatory (I kept looking for Michael J. Anderson), the film's weirdness is sometimes extreme enough to exert an almost hypnotic attraction. But, as good as he may be on stage and in a music studio, The Weeknd (a.k.a. Abel Tesfaye) is not a good actor. His face is too often a blank mask and he delivers dialogue like he's reading off a cue card. So, when the camera focuses on him, which it does with depressing frequency, there's nothing anyone else can do to save the moment.
Jenna Ortega is one of the movie's few saving graces. Her earnest performance as Anima is suitably off-kilter. She gets to dance (seemingly now a prerequisite for any post-Wednesday Ortega movie) but there's something jarring about seeing her acting in a scene with Tesfaye because of the disparity in acting talent. And her role is woefully underwritten. We get shades of Kathy Bates in Misery and Julian Sands in Boxing Helena but the reality of who she is, other than a lonely superfan with arsonist tendencies and a mother who screams at her over her phone, is never investigated.
Tesfaye is playing a fictionalized version of himself. The movie presents him as a huge star who has become disillusioned with both his life and his art. He does drugs with his manager, Lee (Barry Keoghan), but, after losing his voice during a performance, he pulls a disappearing act. This brings him into contact with Anima, a fan he meets backstage. The two spend the night wandering around and getting to know one another (do not mistake this for Before Sunrise). With Lee desperately trying to find his meal ticket, Tesfaye brings Anima to a hotel room where they compare notes about loneliness and apparently sleep together. By the cold light of morning (afternoon, actually), things look very different. Realizing she is just another groupie to be discarded, Anima takes decisive and violent action.
There are a lot of missteps in Hurry Up Tomorrow. The music video-influenced first act runs for too long, too little time is spent on the scenes where The Weeknd and Anima get to know one another, and the Lynch-lite stuff (in addition to being pointless) drags on forever. Hurry Up, indeed! The best stuff focuses on Ortega - Anima's dance moves to "Blinding Lights" and "Gasoline" (after which she explains the meaning of the lyrics to the guy who wrote them) and her spirited clash with Lee. Oh, and if Ortega's role is underwritten, that goes double for Barry Keoghan's.
I can't help but wonder if there might have been a fun B-movie thriller to be found somewhere deep in Hurry Up Tomorrow's DNA - a kind-of Fatal Attraction-influenced story. But that would have required a less pretentious approach (everyone involved seems to believe they are making art) and a more seasoned lead actor. There's also a lingering question about whether this movie was ever intended to be seen by audiences unfamiliar with The Weeknd's discography or whether it's a 105-minute marketing ploy for the companion album.
Whatever the case, Hurry Up Tomorrow seems destined for one of two fates: to be buried in the landfill of self-indulgent, ill-advised vanity projects or find a second life as a cult classic. Until it reaches either of those eventual destinations, however, the best approach is to ignore the movie - let the album stand on its own without this awkward and unwieldy appendage.
© 2025 James Berardinelli
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