A recent trend in documentary sees producers and distributors, mostly streamers, churn out music docs to accompany album releases. These behind-the-scenes docs generally offer little more than self-congratulatory marketing collateral. There’s no real depth to them, but they make amiable tie-ins that illuminate the stories behind the songs. It seems the fad has spread to scripted film with Hurry Up, Tomorrow serving as the latest gobsmackingly awful feat of feature-length self-promotion. It’s a self-indulgent music video by The Weeknd, starring The Weeknd, and seemingly for the benefit of nobody but The Weeknd. Hurry Up Tomorrow basically serves as a feature-length prologue for his new song. And, unfortunately, the film proves so dreadful that anyone who endures it won’t have good vibes connected to the track.
The Weeknd, who plays a variation of himself and receives his credit under his given name Abel Tesfaye, pulls double duty as star and co-writer. The film, like The Weeknd’s album of the same name released earlier this year, draws inspiration from a 2022 concert during which Tesfaye lost his voice and had to stop the show. That experience lends itself very well to the film’s title track. However, writing a song and scripting a movie are different beasts. They have different concerns for narrative, arcs, pacing, backstory, and substance. Tesfaye’s trauma-informed storytelling has limits when stretched to feature length. Some music videos have stories that are stronger and more coherent than that of Hurry Up Tomorrow.
Tesfaye also has limited range as an actor. Following his breakthrough role in Sam Levinson’s god-awful series The Idol, his latest turn proves that being a multi-hyphenate might not be his beat. Singing and producing music are a comfortable wheelhouse, especially since he’s essentially playing himself here. This is not, say, Lady Gaga in A Star Is Born. He’s not an engaging screen presence unless he’s singing.
Hurry Up Tomorrow struggles to shed its trappings as a padded out music video with no compelling narrative connecting the musical performances. Tesfaye frets about a recent breakup and bitches about his ex-girlfriend dumping him over the phone. His manager (Barry Keoghan, totally wasted here) encourages him to snort some coke, pound back some whisky, and put on a show. Meanwhile, unhinged nutjob Anima (a shockingly bad Jenna Ortega) decides to attend his concert after burning down her parents’ house and crossing the country (and, apparently, seasons) in her dumpy truck. Tesfaye and Anima lock eyes at the concert just before his voice cracks. A new hellspawn of Kathy Bates in Misery is born when Anima follows the singer backstage.
Things get truly bizarre from there with director Trey Edward Shults (Waves) seemingly aping David Lynch territory. The Weeknd encounters some Sunday scaries as his one-night stand with Anima takes a nightmarish turn. But all the style and funky lighting can’t really draw a viewer in at this point.
The film looks really slick thanks to the cinematography by Chayse Irvin. Shooting on a mix of 35mm, 16mm, and S8 film, the DoP lenses an enigmatic world and employs a variety of aspect rations to create visually the complex psychology that Tesfaye can’t convey as an actor or writer. But the film still struggles to strike a balance between music video sheen and feature film pacing.
The fumbled pacing, moreover, proves especially disappointing under Shults’ direction. The filmmaker’s previous feature Waves truly breathes cinematic life thanks to its musicality. Shults knows how to use a soundtrack to a film’s advantage with the tempo and visual lyricism working in sync with the music. Here, though, everything comes to lurching halts. There’s just a deadness to this movie that nobody can resuscitate.
Moreover, Tesfaye can’t make himself remotely empathetic. His character—and hopefully this is just the character—proves a repellent misogynist who uses everyone around him. The dark turn of Hurry Up Tomorrow thrusts him into an abyss of his own making. But it’s just impossible to care for anyone, especially when Anima starts deconstructing The Weeknd’s tracks after tying him to a bed. It’s perhaps one of the most cringe-worthy self-indulgences ever committed to film.
Ironically, the one element of the film that does work is the final number. It’s the performance of the film’s title track. While the drama that brings Tesfaye to finally perform the song proves laughably convoluted, he croons “Hurry Up Tomorrow” beautifully. Shults and Irvin shoot the performance in close-up with Tesfaye singing acapella. His natural vocals bring a surprising level of catharsis. It’s not, say, Anne Hathaway belting out “I Dreamed a Dream,” but the closing number nearly proves redemptive. If only one didn’t have to sit through the movie precedes it. But it mostly serves as a full stop for argument that Tesfaye should just stick to singing. And underscore any argument that audiences shouldn’t have to endure dreadful movie that simply advertises new music.
