In Theaters: Crazy Heart

The relationship that develops between them is the film's most obvious contrivance, but Bridges and Gyllenhaal manage to imbue it with the random but welcome succor two lonely people can share. I tend to be indifferent to Gyllenhaal's affectations, from the slouchy sashay to the self-conscious Cheshire smile, but as Jean she is truly endearing -- vulnerable but confident, shy but curious. "My capillaries are close to the skin!" she protests, after Bad offloads a genuine compliment masquerading as a corny line, then chides her for blushing. It's a living, breathing, dealmaking moment, sweetened by the surprise of sudden intimacy; you can almost hear Bad signing up for more.

More intriguing is the relationship between Bad and Tommy Sweet, a character invoked so often and so enigmatically throughout the first half of the movie that his arrival -- especially if, like me, you hadn't seen a trailer or read about the cast -- is a pleasing surprise. It's my job, unfortunately, to spoil it for you: Colin Farrell struts onto the scene in country superstar drag--ponytail, boots, even dangly earrings -- oozing deference to Bad and asking for some songs for his next hit record. The vagaries of a working musician -- playing to a clutch of burnouts one night, 12,000 screaming fans the next -- are an apt enough suggestion of where a life lived on scraps -- of money, of adulation -- might lead you. Sweet, an arena player meant to embody the Top 40 homogenization of country music, is almost embarrassed by his success; Bad is embarrassed to have had to witness it; both men, it should be noted, perform their own songs, and no embarrassment is necessary. "Ain't remembering wonderful?" Bad grumbles in response to Tommy's puppyish reminiscences about his days as an apprentice, and as Bridges delivers it it's a line rich with poetry, a lyric waiting for its due.

Because this is, in its genes, a modest redemption flick, Bad has to do something bad -- or just stupid -- and the losses incurred must lead to his rehabilitation. The third act is the most strained in the film: Jean's trust in Bad is somewhat unforgivably betrayed, and his pain translates into both art (a lucrative songwriting gig born of good old fashioned misery; the songs here, written by T. Bone Burnett and Scott Bruton, are true to their honky-tonk pedigree) and a stint in AA (one coffee and one confessional, it seems, is all it takes to end a lifetime of drinking). Robert Duvall arrives as an old crony to add some welcome bumps to the film's otherwise smooth, uneventful landing. <What you'll remember, though, are the inflections, the animating, human detail added to people we think we know, stories we are certain have already been told.

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