Jay Kelly Review: George Clooney’s Finest Hour

Jay Kelly isn’t really about Hollywood, even though that’s where it starts. It’s not even about fame, exactly — it’s about what happens when someone who’s had everything realizes they might’ve missed the point. Noah Baumbach’s latest for Netflix is funny, bruised, and emotionally sharp, built around a career-best performance from George Clooney as a man trying to make peace with the ghosts of his choices, even as they keep showing up uninvited.

Clooney plays Jay Kelly, a movie star still coasting on his charm, still surrounded by handlers who smooth things over when the charm wears thin. He’s desperate to reconnect with his youngest daughter Daisy before she leaves for Europe — but she’s already halfway gone, emotionally and otherwise. Then news hits that Peter Schneider (Jim Broadbent, Paddington), the director who gave Jay his first break, has died — not long after Jay turned down a plea to help him secure financing on what would have been his comeback project.

The guilt is immediate. And after an ill-advised drink with an old acting school roommate (Billy Crudup, Spotlight) ends in a literal fistfight (and eventually, a lawsuit), Jay bails on his next film, books a Dior excuse trip to Europe, and heads off — part PR spin, part desperate chase for something resembling connection.

What starts as a professional dodge becomes something else: a trail of missed opportunities and people Jay has slowly alienated — his daughter, his colleagues, his own father. Whether he’s chasing Daisy through train stations or running after a cab in Tuscany, Jay is always a step behind. And that’s kind of the point.

It’s the kind of story we’ve seen before — fading star hits the road, stumbles into self-awareness — but Baumbach and co-writer Emily Mortimer (Relic) sidestep the usual clichés. The movie’s not interested in redemption arcs or clean resolutions. Instead, Jay Kelly sinks into the messy gray space between ego and regret, and finds something raw and real there.

Clooney is phenomenal. There’s always been this tension around him — that he’s too smooth, too self-aware, too… Clooney. But here, he lets that persona fray. Jay is brittle, funny, evasive, and clearly aching for connection. You can feel decades of deflection built into every smirk and shrug. He’s playing a guy whose fame has outlived his emotional growth, and the performance is full of tiny, devastating details — a failed smile here, a pause before saying the wrong thing. It’s the kind of acting that feels invisible until it until its subtlety reveals the sophistication of the work.

And then there’s Adam Sandler (Spaceman), calmly stealing scenes as Jay’s longtime manager, Ron. This is stripped-down Sandler — no yelling, no gimmicks, just a man who’s given everything to someone who never really looked back. Their dynamic is tender, funny, and at times painful to watch. Laura Dern (The Fault in Our Stars) brings her signature fire as Jay’s publicist Liz, and their trio has the lived-in rhythm of people who’ve been stuck in the same dysfunctional loop for way too long.

The supporting cast is stacked and beautifully used. Riley Keough (The Lodge) and Grace Edwards (Asteroid City) bring very different energies as Jay’s daughters, both trying — or not trying — to navigate their father’s mess. Stacy Keach (The Bourne Legacy) appears as Jay’s emotionally unavailable dad, and even in a few short scenes, leaves a mark. Mortimer herself pops up in a hilarious background role that you’ll probably miss the first time (go back and listen to the entourage’s whispered absurdities — they’re gold). Alba Rohrwacher (Maria) Greta Gerwig (Barbie), Patrick Wilson (Insidious), and Louis Partridge (Enola Holmes) all make brief but vivid appearances, like perfectly chosen brushstrokes in a much larger canvas.

Technically, the film is a stunner. Linus Sandgren’s cinematography pulls you close when it needs to, almost Altman-like, then expands into glowing European vistas that let the characters breathe — or hide. Nicholas Britell’s score is lush and romantic in that classic John Barry way, and the editing (by Valerio Bonelli and Rachel Durance) gives the story space to land without overplaying anything. Even the costume design deserves a shout: Clooney’s max-cool wardrobe reminds you he’s still a movie star, while Sandler’s look — simple, worn-in — might be his best on-screen styling to date.

There’s a lot of melancholy in Jay Kelly, but it never feels like a downer. If anything, it feels honest in a way we don’t often get in stories about the rich and famous. The film doesn’t wallow in Hollywood navel-gazing — it’s more interested in how easy it is to lose track of the people we love, and how hard it is to earn a second chance once they’ve moved on.

It also feels perfectly timely. In an era when personal brands often take priority over personal growth, Jay Kelly reminds us that charisma and legacy don’t mean much if you’re emotionally bankrupt. You can be the guy everyone wants a selfie with — and still find yourself completely alone at the end of the night.

This isn’t Baumbach at his loudest, but it might be him at his most humane. Every moment feels deliberate. Every interaction stings just a little. Clooney’s already won an Oscar for Supporting Actor, but this feels like the one that should put him in serious Best Actor contention. It’s a performance with so much ego and so much ache — it’s hard not to see it as a little autobiographical. Or maybe that’s just good acting. Either way, Jay Kelly isn’t just a late-career triumph for Clooney — it’s a film about what it costs to look back with clear eyes, and still choose to move forward.