Crazy Heart arrives at a theater near you polished to a high gloss with the gushing accolades of critics and industry insiders. Some of these honors the film most certainly deserves. Others it does not. It is true that Crazy Heart contains one of the best performances by an actor this year. But the film itself, while showcasing Jeff Bridges’ considerable talents, is mostly forgettable, yet another story of middle-age redemption, much like last year’s grittier The Wrestler.

Bridges plays Bad Blake (channeling a little bit Willie Nelson, a little bit Kris Kristofferson), a washed up, alcoholic country singer who was great once but hit an artistic brick wall years ago that he never got beyond. Now he’s living on the vapors of yesteryear, driving a beat-up old truck from dank bar to dingy bowling alley to play his music to a small but devoted following. At night, alone in a shabby motel room, he drinks himself into a vomit-inducing stupor while rifling through Spanish soap operas. Bad has been eclipsed by his former protégé, Tommy Sweet (Colin Farrell), now a superstar who draws tens of thousands to packed arenas. Tommy, like Bad’s longsuffering agent, desperately wants to see the has-been reinvent himself, but Bad has grown comfortable watching his life circle the drain.

That is until he meets Jean Craddock (Maggie Gyllenhaal), a journalist who is looking for a story but finds instead an unlikely affair. Bad sees in Jean something more than just a lover—she is the physical embodiment of the family he walked out on long ago (she is a single mom). The problem, however, is that unless something drastic occurs, the same demons that devoured his previous relationship will consume this one as well.

Crazy Heart isn’t terribly original. It is a well-worn narrative and never as engaging as it should be. First time writer/director Scott Cooper seems to recognize this and instead of tackling a narrative compliancy that never draws us in or affects us emotionally, he diverts our attention by focusing on his lead actor’s performance, very obviously the locus of his creative concentration.

It’s rare in movies to find a character who is so obviously flawed—unkempt in body and soul, overweight and over-medicated, caring so little about himself or his persona—who is also charming and likable enough that when an intelligent, beautiful woman 30 years his junior falls for him, we actually buy the attraction, unorthodox though it may be (even if the romance itself is underwhelming). That is just one of the many immeasurable gifts Bridges brings to the role of Bad Blake, an utterly lived in performance that reflects an authentic, haggard weariness. When Bridges is on stage, his salt and pepper beard hidden under the shadow of his cowboy hat, he is completely at home.

This is Jeff Bridges’ year, they say; finally he will win a much-deserved Academy Award. If he does—and he just might—there will be no doubt that he is deserving. Though as fine as his performance here is—and it is beautiful—it is not as sublime as some seem to believe. Perhaps his role, subdued and low-key, doesn’t impact viewers in the same way a more demonstrative role might. (My favorite male performance of the year, Colin Firth in A Single Man, is an equally minimalist performance, so I don’t think it’s that.)

Bridges’ performance isn’t the only thing in Crazy Heart that soars. Music producer T. Bone Burnett has given Bridges magnificent songs to sing. This is not the sort of film that presupposes a world-class singer but gives him cut-rate songs to croon. Bad’s original ballad, “The Weary Kind,” by Ryan Bingham, is sure to be nominated for a Best Song Oscar. If the amount of times I’ve listened to it on my iPod is any predictor, it will win by a landslide.

Cast: Jeff Bridges, Maggie Gyllenhaal, Colin Farrell, Robert Duvall
Director: Scott Cooper
Rated R for language and brief sexuality.
Running time: 111 min.

© Copyright 2010 Brandon Fibbs. All rights reserved.