There’s no other way of dealing with the mythology of George Clooney but to fully lean into it. With “Jay Kelly,” Noah Baumbach understands this maxim, guiding Clooney through the shaky waters that separate reality from fiction to shape the titular character, an ageing movie star forced to confront the painful dichotomy between his onscreen successes and real-life failures. 
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“Jay Kelly” kicks off with a grandiose opening piece, shot in a large-scale practical set paying homage to Golden Hollywood opulence. Feet nimbly avoid chunky electric cables, and mechanical voices echo from cumbersome headsets as shouts become whispers and all run to their marks. The chaos of the bustling set dims down as attention pours into a corner where a battered man readies himself to welcome death. It is Kelly, coat covered in fake blood, hand slathered with canned fish to trick the dog actor into swiftly responding to his cue. This stark contrast between the emotional pull of the fictional and the unglamorous logistics of the real sets the tone for the story that will follow.
It is a tale as old as time: man chases fame, fame finds him, but happiness remains elusive. As Kelly retreats home for the few days separating his last project from his next, life seems to at last catch up with his frenzied schedule: his darling mentor dies just as his youngest daughter steps into adulthood and away from her father’s nest. An unexpected reunion with an acting school colleague comes to fully push Kelly from this flimsy ledge between yesterday and tomorrow, unearthing uncomfortable truths that send the star into an existential crisis neatly disguised as an impromptu European trip with his large entourage. 

Baumbach is no stranger to gnawing at the thorny knots of familial relationships, but first-time screenwriter Emily Mortimer brings a softness to his signature acid, cynical edges. One has to imagine that the Brit, herself a successful actor, married to another successful actor, and now mother to a rising actor, brings valuable first-person insight to the often mystifying dynamics of a family so deeply embedded in the unsteady ground of showbiz. Together, the two pen a script filled to the brim with earnest exposition and witty one-liners, with Clooney comfortably seesawing between the melancholia of the former and the refined timing of the latter as Adam Sandler, who plays Kelly’s faithful manager Ron, follows around as a nifty springboard. 
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It is Clooney, of course, that anchors and crowns this dramedy, milimetrically envisioned to tug at the hearts of cinephiles (and, for the sake of addressing the elephant in the Netflix room, awards voters). The veteran actor plays into the similarities between himself and this fictional persona, charmingly establishing the viewer as his confidante with every sly smile that punctuates a loaded piece of dialogue. When a defiant teen asks Kelly what he says to people who accuse him of only playing himself, Clooney twists his hips to an almost imperceptible pinch, coming closer without hovering, and cleverly flips the tables: “Do you know how hard it is to play yourself?” 

As Kelly makes his way to Italy to conveniently marry his desire to be alongside his daughter to attending a festival where he is to receive a tribute, “Jay Kelly” mirrors the rhythms of a career showreel, jumping between classic hero journey, weepy family drama, Italian neorealism and screwball comedy to create a perhaps too on-the-nose display of Clooney’s leading man versatility. This train ride that works as the film’s laggard centrepiece also naggingly clogs the carefully constructed pace of this crowdpleaser. 
The stuffy carriage is populated with a carnival of caricatures plucked from British television’s plump acting rolodex, coming in and out of frame to handily jumpstart one of the movie star’s great life musings. The trip also dedicates far too much time to side plots clearly written to allow the American director to call in past contributors, most notably Laura Dern as a tired publicist reminiscing over a summer romance with Sandler’s heartbroken, wimpering manager. The Fellini-esque voyage overstays its welcome, bringing “Jay Kelly” into its final Italian chapter with a certain tiresomeness.
Luckily, Baumbach’s ode to cinema is springy enough to pick itself back up just in time to usher in the actor’s great epiphany. And, goodness, what a lovely final chapter that is, the camera lovingly lingering on Clooney’s face as his wrinkles become clearer under the dressing room’s bright lights and his old friend’s unsteady hands fill in his eyebrows with the help of a battered Sharpie. This tenderness, so welcomingly earnest, precedes a climax that will grant those willing to do away with the temptation of cynicism a beautiful reminder of the magic of movie stars. [B+]
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