Willem Dafoe’s Lost Poet Finds Integrity in Late Fame

When Kent Jones, once known for his razor‑sharp reviews, steps behind the camera for his second feature, you expect something clever. And you get it – but wrapped in a surprisingly tender story about an old man, a forgotten book of poems, and a bunch of well‑heeled Brooklynites who think they’ve got art all figured out.

Willem Dafoe slips into the shoes of Ed Saxberger, a pension‑strapped postal clerk who spends his evenings hustling pool tables with the same regulars he’s known for decades. One rainy Tuesday a young, impeccably dressed NYU grad named Meyers (Edmund Donovan) shows up at the post office, eyes bright, voice reverent. He’s discovered Sax‑s “Way Past Go,” a dusty ’70s collection that never made a splash, and he’s convinced the world needs to hear it.

What follows is a kind of modern‑day fable: Meyers whisks Saxberger into his glossy world, introducing him to the “Enthusiasm Society,” a semi‑secret club of affluent, self‑appointed literary savants. Their meetings are held in sleek lofts, their conversations peppered with references to first‑edition copies of Naked Lunch and MFA dissertations nobody reads. At first, Saxberger relishes the attention – it’s a change of pace from the clatter of mail trucks and the thud of pool balls.

Greta Lee plays Gloria, the only actress in the circle, and she quickly becomes the emotional anchor for Saxberger. Unlike the other members, she lives in a tiny, almost bare apartment, her life far less curated. When she drops the façade of the flirty performer and shows Saxberg a glimpse of her own vulnerability, the film finds its heartbeat.

But the gloss fades fast. Meyers, despite his impressive pedigree – an MFA from a top school, family ties to publishing houses, and a fridge full of rare books – is more interested in expanding the Society’s cultural capital than in actually nurturing Saxberger’s talent. When Saxberger confides about his stubborn writer’s block, Meyers offers hollow platitudes and a meeting with a literary agent who’s more a family friend than a champion of new voices.

The tension builds when Saxberger tries to share his freshly written poems with his pool‑hall buddies. Their response is lukewarm at best, edged with a condescending suggestion that his work is “too high‑brow” for their tastes. The scene feels raw, almost painfully honest, and it forces Saxberger to confront the uncomfortable truth that sincerity isn’t always welcome.

In the climactic reading, staged by the Society in a cramped gallery, Saxberger delivers his verses to a skeptical crowd while Gloria performs a piece inspired by his words. The audience’s reaction is mixed – some polite applause, more murmurs of disappointment. The criticism cuts deep, yet there’s a strange comfort in the fact that the poet finally spoke his truth, however bruised it might be.

Dafoe’s performance is a study in quiet resilience. He carries Saxberger’s grief and stubbornness with a subtle smile that feels both weary and hopeful. Lee, too, balances glamour with grit; her Gloria is not a caricature but a fully formed person who, despite her own ambitions, chooses authenticity over applause.

What lingers after the credits roll isn’t the question of whether Saxberger will ever become a bestselling poet. It’s the realization that the act of creating, of staying true to one’s own voice, can be its own kind of fame – however late it arrives. The final shot, where Saxberger returns to the pool table, surrounded by his old friends, feels less like a retreat and more like a quiet victory. He may never dominate the literary elite, but he’s reclaimed his own rhythm.

Late Fame, then, is less about the glitter of the literary world and more about the small, stubborn acts of honesty that keep a poet alive. It asks us to consider: how much of our art is performed for others, and how much is performed for ourselves?