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Plenty of pop stars have made apologies for concert snafus or private peccadilloes that inadvertently became public. Prior to “Hurry Up Tomorrow,” it’s hard to remember another occasion when they dramatized those experiences in a feature film, much less one co-written by and starring themselves. Inspired by a 2022 incident in which world-renowned singer-songwriter Abel Tesfaye abruptly canceled one of his concerts during the very first song, the man known as the Weeknd plays an indeterminately veiled version of himself as he navigates the physical, professional and emotional fallout of one of the biggest (or at least highest-profile) flops of his career.
Like with his previous acting project, the Sam Levinson-shepherded HBO series “The Idol,” the Weeknd enlists heavy-hitter talent — this time, “Waves” director Trey Edward Shults — to bring his fictionalized self-portrait to life. Even so, “Hurry Up Tomorrow” bears all the signs of pop star hubris masquerading as artistic candor, despite game performances by Jenna Ortega and Barry Keogan to prop up the budding thespian.
The morning after his off-screen girlfriend (Riley Keogh) sends him packing with a brutal (if seemingly deserved) voicemail message, the Weeknd fights his way through an arena concert performance, the kind he’s given hundreds of times before. Despite encouragement (and where needed, pharmaceutical assistance) from his manager and longtime friend Lee (Keoghan), Abel becomes increasingly inconsolable about the break-up, while also insisting he’s experiencing vocal pain that might require an interruption to his international tour. A doctor insists that the singer’s affliction is purely psychosomatic and all he needs is rest, but at the next tour stop, he flames out spectacularly while performing the first number, canceling the show on the spot after losing his voice.
Blaming Lee for failing to adequately accommodate his needs, Abel flees the stadium and encounters Anima (Ortega), a fan he’d locked eyes with in the crowd during his breakdown. The pair embark on a playdate at a beachfront promenade before holing up in a foreign hotel to evade an increasingly frantic Lee. The following morning, Abel seems to have emerged from the grip of panic, but Anima isn’t prepared for their time together to end. An argument ensues and Abel quickly realizes that the young woman who gave him comfort and reassurance in his moment of weakness is not only wrestling with a troubled past of her own but believes an imagined future together is a solution to the problems each of them face.
Tesfaye reportedly began shooting Shults’ film just a few months before the premiere of “The Idol” in 2023. From its first frame opening on the singer’s pre-concert vocal exercises to camera, “Hurry Up Tomorrow” seems blissfully unaware of the critical drubbing yet to come, and unfortunately mirrors the unvarnished self-indulgence of its predecessor. The break-up voicemail that sets its events in motion only hints at the cruelty the Weeknd’s character is capable of in his private relationships, but his subsequent behavior, enabled by inconceivable wealth and a tight circle of sycophantic advisers, only underscores the kid gloves with which he’s handled, but never needs to wear himself. Yet it’s before this project got to the production stage where his real-life advisers could have best assisted their client — or protected him from himself.
“The vagaries of fame” is a highly familiar chestnut for storytelling, as is “stars have problems just like everybody else.” That the film has little new to say about either idea is not in itself a problem, but Tesfaye’s determination to play “himself” in a story about a well-documented incident makes it feel like an overcompensating explanation — almost a justification — for something the world has accepted and moved on from. Yet as he refuses to simply “take the L” for having a one-night flameout on stage, it’s not clear exactly what he wants audiences to take away from this exercise in self-flagellation shrouded in nightmarish imagery.
One guess is that his songs are much more personal than listeners might think, a lesson Anima verbalizes with a breakdown of multiple tracks from across his career. It’s hard to imagine anyone not accepting at face value that virtually any artist’s work gets drawn from a deep well of intimate inspirations. Consequently, the revelation lands with a dull “no kidding” rather than enlightening us as what drove him to compose the chart-topper “Blinding Lights” or even the “Dawn FM” track “Gasoline,” where he recreates the ’80s oddity “Somebody’s Watching Me” playing the parts of both Maxwell and Michael Jackson.
Equal to Tesfaye’s navel-gazing, Shults uses every trick in the music-video playbook to conjure a vivid, ultra-saturated but not quite realistic universe where the Weeknd is a brightly burning sun everyone revolves around. Like discarded footage from Vincent Gallo’s no less indulgent “Brown Bunny,” he uses swirling cameras to capture one sequence of driving and thinking after another, all punctuated by a score from Daniel Lopatin that burbles and oscillates like an end-of-the-world synthesizer orgy. Yet despite Shults’ contributions to a script co-written by Tesfaye and Reza Fahim, the trio can’t (or don’t bother to) come up with enough material of substance for an actual story, instead leaning heavily on atmosphere punctuated with predictable conflict, and eventually, violence.
All that said, the jury’s still out on whether Tesfaye can act. As meme-worthy as his expressions often are (expect a shot of him looking around skeptically to adorn future social media rants), he delivers a handful of moments that convincingly showcase the anguish his character is going through. Keoghan seems to be having the most fun of the trio at the center of this story, navigating the line between confidant and manipulator with virtuosic balance while wearing some pretty fantastic cardigans. Meanwhile playing Lee’s counterpart, Ortega shoulders the emotional heavy lifting — holding the Weeknd’s feet to the fire while carrying trauma for which his music provides perfect accompaniment — but the film’s structure strands her in a role that resembles an aggressive, more therapeutic version of Kathy Bates in “Misery.”
Ultimately, Tesfaye has painted himself into the same kind of corner as someone like Taylor Swift or Rihanna, where thinly veiled versions of themselves are the only roles audiences will accept them in, when and if they want them. Shults’ film will not likely increase that appetite, not because it fails to explore how tough the pressures of stardom can be, but because it encourages others not to care when the Weeknd’s supposed shortcomings — like being a mean, narcississtic person — have little to do with his fame. In which case, let “Hurry Up Tomorrow” be the last word on this incident; as a real or fictional mea culpa, I feel confident his fans will forgive him, if they haven’t already. Maybe just don’t make any make more apologies that need another one afterward.
English (US) ·