Best of TIFF: Jesse Eisenberg’s ‘The Debut’

Outside the occasional blockbuster, you’re unlikely to experience mid-movie applause so thunderous that it drowns out whole lines of dialogue. And yet, Jesse Eisenberg’s The Debut invites just that, with its funny, folksy, ludicrously invigorating tale of a mousey suburban housewife finding herself through the stage, before getting lost all over again.

After his own directorial debut, the promising (if forgettable) When You Finish Saving the World, Eisenberg went on to make the riveting tragicomedy A Real Pain, which marked a major step up for the actor-filmmaker. The Debut continues that exponential trend. Despite taking some rote third-act turns, it’s one of the most exciting, jaw-droppingly hilarious moviegoing experiences you’re likely to have this year, owing to Eisenberg’s whip-smart scripting and direction, and to Julianne Moore’s towering, sympathetic performance as a woman of minuscule stature and ego who becomes a voracious art monster.

The basic premise resembles the classic Simpsons episode “A Streetcar Named Marge,” in which America’s favorite blue-haired housewife tries out for a local musical, is rejected, and then subsequently lands the part. When The Debut begins, Moore’s Mona Friedman finds herself in exactly such a predicament, as she auditions—without fully knowing what an audition entails—for a supporting role as a building superintendent in the classic, fictitious New York musical Nosy Neighbors. Director Jerry Blankenbuehler (Paul Giamatti) is curtly dismissive, but unusual circumstances lead him to cast Mona.

With energy and storytelling economy, Eisenberg establishes the emotional mechanics of his world, one that fittingly functions much as a musical does. It’s broad, melodramatic, but above all, sincere—only the numbers are reserved for the characters’ rehearsals. Mona, a shy mother of two, is completely out of her depth, but is welcomed by bright-eyed cast members like Stef (Halle Bailey) and production crew like Pitor (Eldar Isgandarov), who make her feel not only welcome, but like she’s a dazzling star.

This distinctly theatrical demeanor is typical of creative communities, but so is the imposing shadow Jerry casts when he reprimands Mona for being completely adrift. She’s never acted before, and it shows. Her emotional whiplash dovetails into desperation behind the scenes, as she struggles to be heard by her self-absorbed husband (Patrick Fabian) and his friends, who barely know what she’s been up to.

Moore turns Mona into a fascinating character, whose self-effacing simplicity disguises an eagerness to please. Fleeting dialogue about her upbringing is both revealing and hilariously melancholy, making the emotional pieces fall quickly into place once Jerry takes her aside for one-on-one practice, in the hopes of molding her into an actor. In opening up the basic emotional tools of the trade, he allows her to confront her demons in delightful ways (albeit in a controlled environment), leading to some truly raucous comedic scenes, born of Moore throwing caution to the wind with her awkward despondency in unbroken takes. The more Mona comes into her own as a performer, the more cathartic the movie feels.

All the while, Eisenberg plays with stage-like textures, employing both mischievous lighting cues, and spaces of surreal façade—like the nondescript, phantasmagorical “city” Jerry takes Mona to, in order for her to feel the show’s reality. But the more Mona begins to understand acting, and slips into her character’s skin, the more she’s absorbed by her own ability to do so, until it practically derails the production. The fiction no longer matters to her, just as long as she’s able to find some semblance of authenticity.

While The Debut seems to set up a story of Mona finding her voice on stage and subsequently using it in her personal life, the film takes unexpected turns to practically sweep the latter off screen. Her attempts to find some form of control lead to an astounding emotional spiral, which Moore wears unashamedly despite the embarrassment it entails. The less revealed about it beforehand, the better. And while the whole ordeal feels like a giant middle finger to folk tales of selfish method acting—not unlike fellow TIFF title Elsinore, which recreates a famous episode of Daniel Day-Lewis storming off stage—there’s a perverse beauty to what Moore-as-Mona manages to achieve.

It feels, on paper, like the kind of role tailor-made in a lab for Oscar voters. But in practice, Moore’s performance feels so fluid, introspective and ultimately liberated as to leave all award-season chatter in the dust. If she wins a statue or two for her work here, great! If she doesn’t, then the various guilds and academies aren’t worthy of what she brings to the table: an uninhibited, headfirst dive into every doubt and insecurity an actor has to mount, in order to reach a place of truth and understanding.

Eisenberg is an actor and playwright, so he writes what he knows, but The Debut is also one of the most self-assuredly cinematic comedies to come out of Hollywood in quite some time. Its deft mix of tones and emotions make it the ultimate, lean-forward crowdpleaser from this year’s festival circuit. Not just because it’ll please individual viewers, but because it’ll light a fire under any given collective audience as they try to trace and anticipate where Eisenberg’s story, and Moore’s performance, could possibly be headed next.