Crazy Heart is a lumbering shambles of a film that moves from one cliché to another with such astonishing ease, I'm surprised it didn't come with a disclaimer. Jeff Bridges, in an Oscar-winning performance, plays Otis “Bad” Blake, a broken-down sot who is desperate to revive his sagging country-western career. One afternoon, before a gig (at a bowling alley, no less), Blake agrees to give an interview to a local newspaper reporter. Enter Maggie Gyllenhaal, one of the smartest actresses around, playing an even smarter character, Jean, who loves her job, but loves her little boy, Buddy, even more. Blake and Jean have an intimate discussion in the shadows of Blake's dingy motel room, and how Bridges and Gyllenhaal handle this scene proves why they're two of the best actors working; it's quite a moment.Unfortunately, it's here that the screenplay takes a bone-headed turn, as Jean, clearly too aware and in control of her life, despite her claims to the contrary, falls for Blake in the most sudden example of love-at-first-sight I can remember in a film. It's the wrong choice, Gyllenhaal and her character are both too good to allow such a thing to happen, and Crazy Heart never recovers.
We get the requisite scenes of Blake playing with his band (songs by T-Bone Burnett), and then stumbling over in his own puke. Who is there to try and rescue him from self-destruction? Jean, of course. There's a moment of unforgivable melodrama as Jean, despite her better judgement, leaves Buddy in Blake's care for the afternoon. How that scene plays out, and the anger I felt at its manipulation, is one of the most grievous examples of why this film just doesn't work. And as if all of that isn't enough, at one point, Blake decides to go to one of those posh, Hollywood-style rehabs to dry out (it's the only rehab I've ever seen with a cabana juice bar). He rattles off a few trite AA platitudes, and returns home, miraculously recovered. That's it. The entire scene lasts roughly two minutes.
Colin Farrell, a fine actor, but horribly miscast here, plays a rising country-western star who owes Blake more than a debt of gratitude for his success. His presence is meant as the impetus for Blake's career to take off after his recovery. But the scenes between Farrell and Bridges feel awkward and forced, and Farrell never, for even a minute, seems remotely plausible as a down-home country cowboy. Gyllenhaal has a few nice moments, particularly when she comes to her senses and makes a decision that's best for her, and more importantly, for her son. And Robert Duvall has a humorous cameo as a bartender who has seen his fair share of Bad Blakes in his life.
But the film is a mess, weighted heavily by every “down on his luck” movie cliché imaginable. Writer-director Scott Cooper brings nothing new to the theme, and even manages to make it worse by moving through Blake's downfall and recovery so fast, you can almost see him with his finger on the fast-forward button. It's a shame when you walk into a film inundated by critical acclaim, only to walk out feeling as though you've just witnessed a minor catastrophe.
2009; starring Jeff Bridges, Maggie Gyllenhaal; directed by Scott Cooper; 112 min; R; in English.
