'Crazy Heart': It's more than just a singing Lebowski

Some of my favorite films of all time work by creating fascinating characters, placing them in a setting and then basically just going with the flow, giving precedence to meanderings, longueurs and tangential incident. Scott Cooper's debut feature film "Crazy Heart" is so good at this that it's a shame it bothers with frivolities like "plot" and "dramatic structure."

This kind of filmmaking can create indulgent messes, of course, but it can also result in true works of art in which emotion, drama and meaning bubble up organically out of the world of film. Movies that fall into this latter category include nearly the entire oeuvre of my favorite director, Robert Altman, as well as another movie in which the characters display a half-assed interest in a kidnapping mystery, but mainly just drink White Russians and go bowling - "The Big Lebowski."

Indeed, that cult classic looms heavily over "Crazy Heart" - the vivid central character, an old country singer named Bad Blake, is really just Jeff Bridges reprising his brilliant performance as The Dude with a veneer of dramatic seriousness. Blake is first seen in the parking lot of a bowling alley emptying out a milk jug full of his own urine, which was presumably collected in a long drive to this lowliest of concert venues. In appearance, he's beautifully sketched out as a wreck - his pants remain unbuttoned for the majority of the film, and his unkempt salt-and-pepper beard contains drops of either liquor or vomit depending on how late in the night it is.

But the masterstroke of Bridges' performance is that charm and dignity shine through this rust heap of a man. Blake has laconic lady-killing charm ("I want to talk to you about how bad you make this room look," he tells a conquest) and when he (quite credibly) performs on stage, you can tell his entire heart and soul is dedicated to entertaining whatever meager crowd has mustered - even if he has to take a break in the middle of the set to throw up (there's a lot of vomiting in this movie).

The first 15 minutes proceed in that aforementioned loose hangout vibe, with Blake driving from town to town and doing a little performing, womanizing and boozing in each. It's a very promising start that had me hoping the movie would proceed as a cross between a tour documentary and a shaggy-dog character study. Then Maggie Gyllenhaal shows up. Here is the rest of the hackneyed, precisely-plotted film in six words: love interest, alcoholism, break-up, redemption.

All of it is done well enough, and there's the occasional nice grace note to the expected occurrences, but I just couldn't get past the overall domination of cliche. It certainly doesn't help that the movie brings up and then drops more promising plot threads, like the uneasy yet familiar rapport between Blake and a former-protege-turned-superstar played by Colin Farrell. Defenders of the film often compare it to an old country song that invests cliche with emotional feeling, but that strategy works better over four minutes than 110.

All that said, the pleasures of the movie are nevertheless substantial, from Bridges to the soundtrack, which is composed of classics from legends like Townes Van Zandt and Waylon Jennings as well as outstanding original songs by Ryan Bingham. Bingham's "The Weary Kind" is probably the best original song to prominently feature in a film since Bruce Springsteen's eponymous song for "The Wrestler". Bridges has worked very hard for his all-but-certain Oscar victory in March, and I suppose he deserves it (though my vote would go to Nicolas Cage's tour de force in "Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans"). I just wish that, to paraphrase an old country song, "Crazy Heart" would let the man ramble a little more.

Pros: Bridges is as good as ever.