Jay Kelly: Nicholas Britell’s Analog Masterpiece

Earlier this week, I attended a screening of Jay Kelly at Netflix Epic, hosted by the Society of Composers and Lyricists (SCL), what unfolded was a mesmerizing sense of nostalgia and self reflection that lingered long after the credits.

Directed by Noah Baumbach and co-written with Emily Mortimer, Jay Kelly (in theaters November 14, 2025, and on Netflix December 5) stars George Clooney as the titular character, with Adam Sandler offering a surprisingly tender turn as his longtime manager. The film quietly explores legacy, regret, and the melancholy of self-reinvention, and it does so with the help of one of Nicholas Britell’s most evocative scores to date.

During a post-screening discussion, Britell revealed that the entire soundtrack was recorded on tape, a creative decision that gives the score its distinct warmth and emotional depth. The analog sound immediately evokes an earlier era, textured, imperfect, and deeply human. Within the first few minutes, I found myself convinced the film was a period piece; the music and cinematography seemed to belong to another time. It wasn’t until a modern phone appeared onscreen that I realized the story was set in the present day. That quiet surprise becomes part of the film’s magic: Jay Kelly could easily exist in any decade.

Britell’s mastery shines in one particularly moving scene, where he rewrites the main character’s theme backwards. It’s a subtle but brilliant gesture, not just technically but conceptually, the kind of musical idea that feels almost subconscious to the viewer yet profoundly shapes the emotional landscape.

The beauty of Jay Kelly lies in its atmosphere. The analog recording infuses the music with a tactile nostalgia, while the film’s visuals and performances echo the same handcrafted sensibility. It feels like the work of artists completely in tune with one another, a collaboration that breathes with emotion, texture, and intention.

In the end, Jay Kelly doesn’t just tell a story, it remembers one. And in its music, you can hear every fragile, flickering frame of that memory.