Reviews have been great. I love T Bone Burnett, love “The Dude” in The Big Lebowski. I don’t like Maggie Gyllenhaal has an actress but thinks she picks great movies, so I tolerate her presence as a means to an end.
With those elements in place,
Crazy Heart seemed to be exactly what I needed to see. The first couple of scenes: Bad Blake arriving at a Midwestern bowling alley in a 1970’s Silverado, belt unbuckled so beer gut could ride into town comfortably after last night’s show, trying to run a tab at the bar to no avail…pitch perfect introduction. Bad is soiled, physically and inside—and it makes the audience feel like taking a shower.
The film gets an A for authenticity. Bad Blake’s exist out there, not only in country music—or even solely in music…The 50-something alcoholic playboy who has lost his looks, most of his money, but none of his charm exists everywhere from bar room to boardroom. I’ve met Bad Blake before and am probably at times hanging out with his younger self now.
The accolades Jeff Bridges is getting are deserved. He gets the fast, muffled diction of a drunk and wipes his words into the mike or across the payphone like he’s windexing them into a dashboard. He comes equipped with the bad boy eye twinkle and manages to show us a new form of down and out loser—not as lost as Nicholas Cage in
Leaving Las Vegas—or as raw as Mickey Rourke in
The Wrestler—but similar, with a little more intelligence.
Supporting cast—eh. Gyllenhaal has a decent accent and a pretty orange dress. Other supporting actors—Robert Duvall and Colin Farrell—were poorly used. The movie could have been edited down another 30 minutes—Duvall’s fishing buddy/AA going bartender/supporter didn’t need to exist. Wasted space and wasted talents of one of our finest performers (see
The Road—which is coming to The Naro soon).
Farrell’s ex-protégé turned pop-country star could have been less stereotyped and more of a central focus—Bad’s void in not being a father figure is a huge issue for him and this could have been addressed more poignantly through the music—country music at that, the most melodramatic and whiskey friendly of all—but it wasn’t. Instead, it tries to cram in Bad’s long lost son, Gyllenhaal’s little boy who
actually gets lost (cue obvious), and the “I taught you everything you know—Yes you did, thank you, I feel guilt about my success” vibes between Bad and Tommy (Farrell).
Maybe I wish for this because I thought Colin Farrell did a wonderful job with the few non-singing scenes he had. He walked the fine line between real musician and industry-created pop star nicely. When he sang, his eyebrows furrowed, eyes pierced an unknown point behind the audience—and it wasn’t “Tommy”, it was Colin—who’s been through a few addiction and paternity battles himself.
