'Hurry Up Tomorrow' review: The Weeknd can’t act in pretentious vanity project

Courtesy of Lionsgate

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An overtly indulgent vanity project that holds you hostage for nearly two hours, “Hurry Up Tomorrow” is The Weeknd’s latest attempt to prove he can Capital-A Act. Abel Tesfaye, still smarting from the widely mocked “The Idol,” returns with another soulless, self-serving creative vehicle, this time disguised as a feature film. 

Timed to the release of his album of the same name, which dropped last month to lukewarm reviews, “Hurry Up Tomorrow” is billed as a multi-platform artistic statement. But really, it’s just one long therapy session for a pop star who seems desperate to reframe his public image. Directed by Trey Edward Shults, an indie filmmaker with real talent who you’d hope might rein in some of Tesfaye’s worst instincts, the film instead doubles down on his most indulgent tendencies.

Tesfaye plays a fictionalized version of himself: a global superstar mid-tour, grappling with burnout, creative exhaustion, and existential dread. His character is slipping into isolation, battling regrets and second-guessing the meaning behind his music and persona. He’s surrounded by a cast of enablers, handlers, and sycophants, yet more alone than ever. The film tries to explore his crumbling psyche while he soldiers on through a physically and emotionally draining tour, mirroring the real-life 2022 incident when Tesfaye lost his voice mid-show and had to walk offstage.

That moment might have earned him some goodwill back then, but here, it’s rehashed and inflated into a full-blown martyr narrative. The whole movie seems designed to justify his decision and wring sympathy from the audience. Dude, we get it, you blew out your vocal cords. It happens. But turning it into a grand, operatic statement on pain, fame, and redemption? That’s a stretch.

Co-written by Shults, Tesfaye, and “The Idol” co-creator Reza Fahim, the film feels like a stitched-together fever dream of half-formed ideas. The pacing is glacial, the dialogue clunky, and the emotional beats hollow. It’s clearly a Tesfaye-controlled production (Live Nation funded the film), giving him full creative control and it shows. No one here was saying no.

The third act introduces Jenna Ortega as an obsessed fan who confronts Tesfaye’s character, accusing him of running from the emotional core of his music. Her character, unfortunately, is underwritten and reduced to a symbolic device, less a person than a therapy mirror. What follows is a series of bloated, meandering monologues and surreal vignettes that attempt to unpack the psychological cost of fame. Eventually, the film culminates in one of the most cringe-inducing moments in recent cinema: Tesfaye, alone on screen, sings a ballad directly into the camera in a single, unbroken take. It’s supposed to be cathartic. It plays like ego worship.

And that’s the fundamental problem, “Hurry Up Tomorrow” wants to be raw, introspective, and healing. But it never earns that emotional payoff. It’s not self-examination; it’s self-congratulation. If you’re looking for a better example of a musician wrestling with demons in a meaningful way, try “Better Man,” the Robbie Williams biopic. That one had heart. This one just has narcissism and an inflated sense of purpose.

“Hurry Up Tomorrow” is what happens when no one in the room tells the star he’s not being profound. Tesfaye wants you to applaud his pain, validate his journey, and bask in his voice like it’s a spiritual awakening. Gimme a break.

Grade: F 

HURRY UP TOMORROW is now playing in theatres.