Noah Baumbach’s new film “Jay Kelly” seems tailor-made for the man at its center: George Clooney. The parallels between the actor and his character are hard to miss. Both have been labeled successors to the classic Hollywood charm of Clark Gable, both admire Paul Newman, and both embody a fading category of movie stars defined by elegance, charisma and the kind of smile that once sold films by itself. Jay Kelly feels like a hypothetical version of Clooney dropped into a different emotional timeline.

Yet Clooney’s real life diverges sharply from Jay’s. Clooney has built a reputation as a loyal partner, a dedicated father and a committed humanitarian known for long-standing friendships and a grounded personal life. Jay Kelly, by contrast, is a man whose outward success cloaks an inner emptiness. His entire identity has collapsed into the public’s affection—he is “the guy people love from the movies,” and little else. His drive toward fame has eroded relationships with partners, estranged him from his daughters and left him with few genuine connections. The closest person in Jay’s world is Ron, played with surprising tenderness by Adam Sandler. Ron adores Jay, though not as much as he loves his own family. Jay calls Ron a friend, but this is a friend who takes a percentage of every paycheck.

“Jay Kelly” is an unusual film, one that drifts between tones and narrative registers. It feels deeply personal to Clooney, but also to Baumbach, who co-wrote the screenplay with Emily Mortimer and briefly appears on screen. The story isn’t just about fame; it’s about what a life shaped by the entertainment industry extracts from those inside it. The constant movement, the rehearsed pleasantries, the emotional labor of fulfilling other people’s expectations—all of it is woven into the narrative. At the same time, Baumbach acknowledges the strange magic that movies can hold. Films often become part of people’s lives in ways their creators never expect, taking on meaning beyond their runtime.

Although the film follows a fictional star, it doubles as a wistful elegy for an era when a single well-known actor could open a film on name recognition alone. That sentiment is clear from the opening scene on a bustling soundstage, shot in one unbroken sweep, reminiscent of classic Hollywood and perhaps even echoing Robert Altman’s “The Player.” This energetic introduction establishes Jay’s world and sets the stage for the unsettling days that follow.

The plot is set into motion when Jay learns of the death of his mentor, Peter Schneider, played by Jim Broadbent. At the funeral, he unexpectedly reconnects with an old acting-school companion, portrayed by Billy Crudup. That reunion becomes a turning point, particularly after Jay impulsively decides to flee to Europe to spend time with his younger daughter during her final summer before college. But Jay cannot simply disappear; he travels with a caravan of industry professionals, including his hairdresser (played by Mortimer), his publicist (Laura Dern) and the ever-dependable Ron. The group’s trip becomes even more chaotic when Ron is forced to hurriedly set up a lifetime tribute event for Jay at an Italian film festival—an honor Jay initially rejected.

As Jay moves through Europe, memories he has long buried resurface. Flashbacks featuring Charlie Rowe as the young Jay revisit early romances, artistic ambitions and awkward moments with his older daughter that still weigh heavily on him. Each recollection helps Jay confront the question of who he really is. Ron, meanwhile, is making his own quiet journey toward self-realization, having sacrificed more for Jay’s career than he has ever admitted.

One of the film’s strangest sections unfolds aboard a European train, where a carriage full of recognizable European actors seems to place Jay inside a patchwork of cinematic memories. Baumbach appears to be recreating specific genres and movie traditions, blurring the line between Jay’s life and the films he has spent his life making. Jay remarks in one flashback, “All my memories are movies,” and the film treats that line as literal. His past appears to him in shifting genres, while his present takes on shapes equally theatrical. Jay Kelly has played himself for so long that he no longer knows how to experience life without imagining a camera pointed at him.

The film does not fully unify its tones or themes, but it still manages to cast a warm, slightly nostalgic spell. Clooney inhabits Jay with a mix of vulnerability and old-school glamour, while Sandler brings unexpected emotional depth to Ron. Ron is not the stereotypical Hollywood manager driven by money; he is a devoted family man who genuinely believes that Jay’s work brings joy to people. In many ways, Ron emerges as the most fully realized person in the story, someone whose inner life remains untouched by the machinery of fame.

The ending of “Jay Kelly” is both uplifting and subtly melancholic, blending classic Hollywood grandeur with an undercurrent of unresolved conflict. Baumbach seems to acknowledge that the compromises of a life in entertainment are never fully settled. The film quotes Sylvia Plath in its epigraph: “It’s a hell of a responsibility to be yourself. It’s much easier to be somebody else or nobody at all.” That idea lingers long after the film ends. If our identities are built from our memories, and Jay’s memories are all movies—movies everyone else has watched—then the question remains: who is Jay Kelly, really?