Crazy Boring

We opted to see the lil' independent film Crazy Heart this evening.  It stars Jeff Bridges as Bad Blubarb (okay, so I can't remember his last name), the 57 year old country singer who is a warshed up alcoholic who also smokes like a chimney and has found himself with four ex-wives and a 28 year old son he knows nothing about.

The movie reviewers raved about this film, and I always prefer to give a good independent a chance rather than get spoon fed some formulaic Hollywood blockbuster that appeals to the great unwashed masses.  And so we ventured to the little Dedham community theater, which we've been to before and like for it's small-town charm (and beer and wine).  And thus we found ourselves nearly stupefied by the utter boredom of watching this movie.

The acting was stupendous, I cannot fault the actors.  It was the story, or lack thereof,, combined with the fact that one should be a country music fan to appreciate the film.  I'd guess about 1/3 of it was music.  I am a music lover, EXCEPT FOR COUNTRY MUSIC.  I will listen to rap before I listen to country music, that's how little I think of country.  Why?  Why would I reject a form of music that is the MOST popular in this country?  Because, quite frankly, I could be a country music star.  My mom could be a country music star.  I think my cat may already moonlight as a country music star.

I know that one of my three followers of this little crappy blog is a big country music fan.  Way to discard 1/3 of my fan base (hi Kari!).  There is nothing offensive to me about the sound of country music.  Nor is there anything remarkable about it.  It is also completely formulaic, predictable, and above and beyond all else, repetetive.  Perhaps one in every 500 country songs is in some way unique to my ears.  Not that I've even given 50 country music songs a chance, because I fell asleep during the opening of the second one you asked me to listen to.  What's that you say?  Yer dog has run off with yer wife and the bank is taking the farm?  You appreciate the beauty of this country after you've downed a case of Bud Light?  You're wondering why you shaved your legs for this?  Frankly, my wheat chewing, tobaccy spitting friend, I don't give a flying fuck.  You have no funky base or backbeat to accompany your compelling tale, and my ADD riddled brain moved onto more interesting (and shiny!) things at about your second utterance of ye-haw.

Whoa, that was more of an angry tangent than I planned on.  Getting back to the movie...oh yeah, I forgot, I told you everything already.  NOTHING HAPPENED.  Bridges sang some songs, drank some whisky, threw up a bit, and enter Maggie Gyllenhaal, my favorite pig-faced, smarmy leading lady.  She did a great job, and I mean that sincerely...the girl can act, BUT...that face.  That unfortunate face can only convey smugness in one form or another.  She can be smugly happy, smugly sorrowful, smugly hungry...you name it, she can do it, smugly.  She has an adorable round-faced, cherubic son, named Buddy, that Bad dumps regret over his wasted years of drinking through fatherhood into.  Alas, he cannot ditch the whisky whist babysitting, and little Buddy goes missing for a few hours.  Gyllenhaal, understandably, cannot forgive his bumbling babysitting snafu, even after he sobers up.  THE END.  After 2.5 hours, I mean.

When I read the reviews for this movie I thought to myself, "Hmmm, sounds like The Wrestler."  We all loved The Wrestler, and Bridges can act, so how could it be bad?  Even after we left the movie I mused..."Why was The Wrestler so good and that so bad?"  Answser - Crazy Heart has 0% wrestling.  DUH.  I had to substitute wrestling with country music.  SUBSTITUTE FAIL, subsequent MOVIE FAIL.

PS, Jeff Bridges, I still heart you.  I hope you can forgive me hating your movie.