After weeks of not being able to see this for various reasons, TSLF and I finally got out to the theater to take in Crazy Heart, and am I ever glad we did.
As this is a movie about a musician, I feel compelled to talk first about the music. The soundtrack is outstanding. With Buck Owens, Waylon, Townes, and more scattered throughout the film with the Oscar-nominated Ryan Bingham theme, "The Weary Kind," bridging from the coda to the credits, the non-Bad Blake songs in the film set the perfect tone. And by perfect tone, I mean the film's soundtrack is absent any and all bullshit, factory-produced, Nashville faux-country.
But really the soundtrack is just there to compliment the performance by Jeff Bridges. Singing mostly* T-Bone Burnett/Stephen Bruton penned songs, Bridges deftly embodies the Texas country singer, both as an actor and as a musician. Vocally, Bridges pulls off everything that's asked of him, which is no small task considering that the "Bad Blake" catalog runs the gamut from country ballad to a honky-tonk rollick. As an actor, he never misses a beat on his whiskey-soaked run.
*There's also the great "Brand New Angel" that was written by a personal favorite of mine, Greg Brown.
As for the rest of the film (and really, the music is that important), well, it's really damn good. Upon initially hearing of this film, I think a lot of us were probably drawn to comparing it to The Wrestler. There are certainly thematic elements that the two films share. They are about former stars in their fields of entertainment whose careers have been relegated to playing for peanuts in holes-in-the-wall. Both protagonists have also let their career pursuits (and the lifestyle inherent in such paths chosen) get in the way of the building any semblance of a personal life, leaving loved ones in their wake.
Where the films differ is in how they make the viewer feel. Sure, both films have humor generously mixed in, but where The Wrestler is ultimately depressing as the future can only have so much to hold for a professional wrestler, Crazy Heart is not nearly as sombre. Where The Ram only knows one way to live and his age has gotten to be an insurmountable obstruction, Bad Blake has a clear path by which he can right his ship. As such, the humor within is not simply a means by which temporary levity is allowed in to an otherwise bleak cinescape, it enriches a redemption tale.
And setting this tale of a Texas country singer against the quiet vastness of the American Southwest seals the deal. Maybe it is coincidental, but three of the best films* of the past five years have all been filmed largely against that backdrop. Now there is a fourth.
*Here, I am talking of The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada, No Country for Old Men, and There Will Be Blood, which actually might just be the three best films of that time span, in descending order. The only film I can think of that might force its way into that conversation off the top of my head is Children of Men. Well, that and Rambo, of course. And maybe Brick.
Driven by the superb performance of Jeff Bridges, whose turn as an alcoholic washed up country star strikes a perfect balance between a charming performer and a hopeless drunk, Crazy Heart is great film imbued with a love for music and its flawed hero.
Showing posts with label The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada. Show all posts
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Man on Film: No Country for Old Men
After the release of two consecutive missteps, doubt began to creep into the collective psyche of filmgoers the world over as to whether they still had it. Joel and Ethan Coen have quieted any agnosticism with a resounding triumph. Owing much to their long-time collaborator, cinematographer Roger Deakins, they have taken Cormac McCarthy's minimalistic brutality and fully reimagined it for their medium.
The sparse nature of McCarthy's writing burns its way through the film; the Coens seemingly holding themselves to Hitchcock's belief that the right image will say much more than any words you can put in the mouths of the actors. This overarching lack of dialogue serves to lend even more credence to what each character does say. When the sporadic use of dialogue is coupled with the complete lack of a score, the result for the Coens is an intrinsically compelling film in which violence dances in and out of the characters' lives indiscriminately, just as it does in reality.
While the argument could certainly be made that the stars of the film could be Roger Deakins' camera and the landscape of West Texas, Southern New Mexico, and North Central Mexico, the Coens have once again managed to cast their film to perfection.
Javier Bardem channels insanity, dispassion, and determinism all at once, beholden to what one can only imagine to be some innate psychopathic code. Every choice Bardem makes is on point, including his much-talked-about hairstyle.
Tommy Lee Jones returns to the desert and scrubland of West Texas (the site of his little-seen directorial masterpiece The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada) where it seems as though he's destined to turn in fantastic performances. His wizened visage emotes so much that Joel and Ethan could have probably just trained the camera on his face, not given the character of Sheriff Ed Tom Bell any lines of dialogue, and still gotten every point across they desired. Fortunately, that was not the case, as his character provides the film with its center, heart, and much of its humor. As he and his deputy, Wendell (Garret Dillahunt of Deadwood notoriety), investigate the spree of crimes in their jurisdiction, their banter lightens up what would otherwise be an unrelenting look at an instance of violence devouring everything in the path of a misplaced $2 million.
To ignore Josh Brolin would be an oversight, as his turn as Llewelyn Moss punctuates his triumphant return from a decade of wasting away in mostly irrelevant films. The past year has been kind to him, and in return he gives the public what some would not expect: a resolute, defiant, ordinary man whose opportunism puts him in an extraordinary--and seemingly insurmountable--situation.
As tends to be the norm with the Coen Brothers' films, the supporting roles are well cast, placing the viewer firmly in West Texas of 1980 with each secondary and tertiary fitting the bill of West Texan. Harrelson, Root, MacDonald, Corbin and the aforementioned Dillahunt all excel to name but a few.
Insofar as the story is concerned, complaints about the last quarter of the film seem flawed. The narrative of No Country for Old Men is propelled by one thing: the determination of Anton Chigurh to see his mission to the end. It is driven by his necessity to carry out all of his actions by his code. For the film to have the standard ending would have been a disservice to the singular force that tears through the movie, carving its way through the film and its characters with its jagged blade.
The sparse nature of McCarthy's writing burns its way through the film; the Coens seemingly holding themselves to Hitchcock's belief that the right image will say much more than any words you can put in the mouths of the actors. This overarching lack of dialogue serves to lend even more credence to what each character does say. When the sporadic use of dialogue is coupled with the complete lack of a score, the result for the Coens is an intrinsically compelling film in which violence dances in and out of the characters' lives indiscriminately, just as it does in reality.
While the argument could certainly be made that the stars of the film could be Roger Deakins' camera and the landscape of West Texas, Southern New Mexico, and North Central Mexico, the Coens have once again managed to cast their film to perfection.
Javier Bardem channels insanity, dispassion, and determinism all at once, beholden to what one can only imagine to be some innate psychopathic code. Every choice Bardem makes is on point, including his much-talked-about hairstyle.
Tommy Lee Jones returns to the desert and scrubland of West Texas (the site of his little-seen directorial masterpiece The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada) where it seems as though he's destined to turn in fantastic performances. His wizened visage emotes so much that Joel and Ethan could have probably just trained the camera on his face, not given the character of Sheriff Ed Tom Bell any lines of dialogue, and still gotten every point across they desired. Fortunately, that was not the case, as his character provides the film with its center, heart, and much of its humor. As he and his deputy, Wendell (Garret Dillahunt of Deadwood notoriety), investigate the spree of crimes in their jurisdiction, their banter lightens up what would otherwise be an unrelenting look at an instance of violence devouring everything in the path of a misplaced $2 million.
To ignore Josh Brolin would be an oversight, as his turn as Llewelyn Moss punctuates his triumphant return from a decade of wasting away in mostly irrelevant films. The past year has been kind to him, and in return he gives the public what some would not expect: a resolute, defiant, ordinary man whose opportunism puts him in an extraordinary--and seemingly insurmountable--situation.
As tends to be the norm with the Coen Brothers' films, the supporting roles are well cast, placing the viewer firmly in West Texas of 1980 with each secondary and tertiary fitting the bill of West Texan. Harrelson, Root, MacDonald, Corbin and the aforementioned Dillahunt all excel to name but a few.
Insofar as the story is concerned, complaints about the last quarter of the film seem flawed. The narrative of No Country for Old Men is propelled by one thing: the determination of Anton Chigurh to see his mission to the end. It is driven by his necessity to carry out all of his actions by his code. For the film to have the standard ending would have been a disservice to the singular force that tears through the movie, carving its way through the film and its characters with its jagged blade.
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