Nobody takes the Weeknd more seriously than Abel Tesfaye, and after Hurry Up Tomorrow, I don't know if anyone ever could. Because Hurry Up Tomorrow is not a visual album — it's not a musical either; rather, it's the career equivalent of a franchise splitting its final instalment into two parts, feigning care for the audience but motivated by absolute hubris. It is a Spotify banner of a film; something that belongs on a cracked iPhone or LED billboard instead of any half-full theatre.
Inspired by the time Tesfaye lost his voice onstage in 2022, and written at the same time as the album of the same name released earlier this year, Hurry Up Tomorrow follows a fictionalized Tesfaye playing himself as he crashes out. Stressed out and self-isolating, the only things keeping him going are his best friend Lee (Barry Keoghan), drugs, his MIDI keyboard and toxic codependency. But after meeting a mysterious fan and mirror to himself (Jenna Ortega) as he flees the stage, a champagne bottle over the head results in a midpoint switch-up that sees the Weeknd facing the music at the mercy of his latest date: Anima (Ortega), like the female aspect of man's psyche in Jungian philosophy. The only thing spinning faster than the swivel-mounted camera that defines Hurry Up Tomorrow's slog of a first half is probably Jung in his grave.
That's because every character, every line, serves Tesfaye's self-tormented self-insertion. No other real character exists other than himself — everything and everyone onscreen serves the mildly sick and twisted ego trip of the Weeknd, a grown man going through a high school breakup, coked out and at the end of his line. He dons a gilded robe and punches his hypeman's chest guard before every show like a raging bull, but it's hard to square up against your demons when you can't even admit what they even are. On both sides of the camera, it's up to everyone else to take care of that for Tesfaye.
Like the album, the final bow that is Hurry Up Tomorrow is only made somewhat memorable by its contributors. Daniel Lopatin, a.k.a. Oneohtrix Point Never, who also co-produced the album, brings his synth to deliver a score whose mood and affect go beyond anything Tesfaye penned for the project. Keoghan and Ortega act circles around Tesfaye as he goes between giving nothing to the camera and shedding two tears maximum. Even the critically acclaimed Waves and It Comes at Night director Trey Edward Shults manages to cut a passable movie, albeit one that looks exactly like a film funded by Live Nation would. But there's something to be said about a film whose central figure provides its absolute worst element, especially one as involved as Tesfaye.
For on-screen performances, Tesfaye currently sits at 0–2, his cameo in Uncut Gems notwithstanding. The Idol was memed to death, and Hurry Up Tomorrow has that same potential. It's the endpoint for one of the most streamed artists of all time, and Tesfaye has the final say with the script he co-wrote with Shults and Reza Fahim, but it's the same thing that he's been saying for a very long while now: he fucked up and he's sorry. This time, he delivers his message through straightforward lines that read like a chain of messages sent by middle schoolers on Kik, and the effect is like semantic satiation for vibes. I almost have to respect how hard Hurry Up Tomorrow tries (and often fails) to capture the energy that Tesfaye honed as the Weeknd.
On brand with his discography dating back to posting tracks to YouTube over a decade ago, Hurry Up Tomorrow is marked by fleeting highs and lows that feel like they may go on forever. A prolonged confession for apparently everything and absolutely nothing at all, Tesfaye propped up by a team of on- and off-screen contributors Weekend at Bernie's-style. If this really is him killing off his character for good, then mission accomplished.