Artist: Spoon
Album: Transference
Label: Merge
I am not a Spoon fan. I was not a Spoon fan before hearing Transference. I am not a Spoon fan now, after hearing Transference. So if you are reading this as a faithful follower of the band, you should probably stop and go do something else. Make a sandwich. Get married. Take a shower. The possibilities are endless, really.
For those of you still reading, what you are about to encounter is an unabashedly ignorant review of the band’s latest album for people who were intrigued by the cover art, people who found the album on sale somewhere, or people who have always wondered if Spoon was worth a listen.
The short answer? Yes, they are worth a listen. Despite my dislike for many of the songs, I find that I respect the album as an artistic work. I even enjoy a couple of the tunes. But on the whole, the album really grates on my nerves.
The first thing I noticed about Transference is how sparse it sounds. Each musical component stands out distinctly in the mix. Each jab on the guitar, each hit on the snare, each tap on the keyboard--it’s all right there, smacking you in the face with every beat.
“Before Destruction” opens the album with a steady, pulsing rhythm. This rhythm lies at the heart of Spoon’s music. While the basic beat morphs continuously throughout the album, it always retains an almost primitive simplicity, a primal immediacy that is hard to ignore.
Over this trance-inducing beat the band plays straight-ahead rock and roll in a decidedly un-rock and roll fashion. Many of the typical rock signifiers are present (loud guitars, drums, etc...), but almost none of the rock attitude. It almost feels like the band is too practiced. Like they could play these songs in their sleep. In fact, it almost feels like they are asleep. Or zombies, maybe.
While the zombie musicians play rock and roll, Britt Daniels sings about…something. The first line of the album is “Before destruction, a man’s heart is haughty.” You have to admit, this hardly sounds like inspired lyricism, or even lyricism at all. But Daniels makes it work with a careful mix of menace, swagger, and boredom.
I am hard-pressed to adequately describe his style of vocal delivery. His voice doesn’t stretch too many boundaries or do too many tricks. He doesn’t sound overly emotional, but avoids being too distanced. Now and again he slips in a falsetto note or two. But generally he just…sings. The tone is vaguely reminiscent of an old-fashioned Brit-pop band, but with a good deal of 21st century fatalism stuffed in for good measure. Britt’s voice, like Spoon’s music in general, is composed, simple, and well-executed.
I would argue this is what is so uncomfortable about Spoon. Whereas an ordinary band would launch into an anthemic chorus or a raunchy guitar solo or two, Spoon never does. Transference is the skeleton of an album. Every song feels like it is preparing for something, getting itself ready, then vanishing instantly. Like this review.
March 31, 2010
March 15, 2010
Remember Me
In this interest of critical objectivity, I should point out that the reason I went to go see Remember Me is because of Tate Ellington, the actor who plays Aidin, the main character’s best friend. Although I can’t ever remember meeting him personally, he went to my high school and graduated about the same time as my older brother. Needless to say, a home-town boy making good on his dreams, while common, is always an exciting narrative when you get to see it play out. If only I could likewise commend the rest of the movie.
Remember Me tells the story of Tyler Hawkins (Twilight’s Robert Pattinson), a disaffected 22 year-old whose biggest problem seems to be that he wishes his father (Pierce Brosnan) were more emotionally invested in the life of their family. Tyler seems to project a vague sense of blame upon his father for the suicide of his older brother six years before. However, the only thing Tyler himself is good at is being a family man, especially in the deft way he provides support for his artistically-inclined younger sister, Caroline (Ruby Jerins).
The other important thread in the plot of the movie is his semi-torrid young love affair with Ally Craig (Lost’s Emilie de Ravin). Ally is the daughter of a policeman (Chris Cooper) who is notable because a) he rearranged Tyler’s face in a fit of minor police brutality, and b) he is haunted by his wife’s murder at the hands of muggers. He is overprotective of Ally to the point where he beats her once on screen. It’s ambiguous whether this is an aberration or a pattern, but domestic violence is inexcusable I suppose, although a clearer understanding would clarify Ally’s judgment a bit.
I thought everybody did a fine job of acting—for the most part—with the material they had to work with. Although some critics seem to be wringing their hands with James Dean comparisons, I thought Pattinson was much closer to channeling James Van Der Beek.
I guess it’s unfair to be harder on de Ravin simply because I watch her on Lost every week, but I could occasionally her Australian accent break through when he she had to do something challenging with her voice. I say that about her, even though as far I could tell, only Ellington, Jerins, and Cooper were American in this cast, and I have no idea what would pass for a believable Manhattan accent.
Ellington turns in a fine comic turn as the impish sidekick. Some critics disagree with me, but I have a feeling that they don’t like the movie or the way his character was written, and dismiss him because of a lack of name recognition. Jerins is similarly delightful, playing her age authentically, without mugging or awkwardness.
Although the meat of the story itself is pleasant, if unmemorable, it’s the beginning—and especially the end—to which I took strong exception. I’m going to “spoil” part of the ending for you—not because I which to ruin anybody’s enjoyment of the film, but enhance it so that you might not be as angry or blind-sided as I was coming out of this film. As you might come to suspect—and dread—after seeing many unnecessary cultural landmarks setting this film almost a decade ago, Remember Me does in fact use the events of September 11th as an emotionally manipulative plot twist.
There might be an argument to be made about seeing each victim of the attacks in a unique manner by exploring a representative—though fictional—life. However, I feel this argument is undermined by the beginning, in which we see Ally’s mother gunned down in the subway in front of her. This serves less to advance the plot than to exploit the audience’s emotions. These scenes, I feel, are a shameful blight on an otherwise okay—even enjoyable—film. I lay the blame mostly on writer Will Fetters, and director Allen Coulter, although the ending was filmed as—under the circumstances—tastefully as possible.
Remember Me is rated PG-13 for violence, language, sexual content, and smoking.
Remember Me tells the story of Tyler Hawkins (Twilight’s Robert Pattinson), a disaffected 22 year-old whose biggest problem seems to be that he wishes his father (Pierce Brosnan) were more emotionally invested in the life of their family. Tyler seems to project a vague sense of blame upon his father for the suicide of his older brother six years before. However, the only thing Tyler himself is good at is being a family man, especially in the deft way he provides support for his artistically-inclined younger sister, Caroline (Ruby Jerins).
The other important thread in the plot of the movie is his semi-torrid young love affair with Ally Craig (Lost’s Emilie de Ravin). Ally is the daughter of a policeman (Chris Cooper) who is notable because a) he rearranged Tyler’s face in a fit of minor police brutality, and b) he is haunted by his wife’s murder at the hands of muggers. He is overprotective of Ally to the point where he beats her once on screen. It’s ambiguous whether this is an aberration or a pattern, but domestic violence is inexcusable I suppose, although a clearer understanding would clarify Ally’s judgment a bit.
I thought everybody did a fine job of acting—for the most part—with the material they had to work with. Although some critics seem to be wringing their hands with James Dean comparisons, I thought Pattinson was much closer to channeling James Van Der Beek.
I guess it’s unfair to be harder on de Ravin simply because I watch her on Lost every week, but I could occasionally her Australian accent break through when he she had to do something challenging with her voice. I say that about her, even though as far I could tell, only Ellington, Jerins, and Cooper were American in this cast, and I have no idea what would pass for a believable Manhattan accent.
Ellington turns in a fine comic turn as the impish sidekick. Some critics disagree with me, but I have a feeling that they don’t like the movie or the way his character was written, and dismiss him because of a lack of name recognition. Jerins is similarly delightful, playing her age authentically, without mugging or awkwardness.
Although the meat of the story itself is pleasant, if unmemorable, it’s the beginning—and especially the end—to which I took strong exception. I’m going to “spoil” part of the ending for you—not because I which to ruin anybody’s enjoyment of the film, but enhance it so that you might not be as angry or blind-sided as I was coming out of this film. As you might come to suspect—and dread—after seeing many unnecessary cultural landmarks setting this film almost a decade ago, Remember Me does in fact use the events of September 11th as an emotionally manipulative plot twist.
There might be an argument to be made about seeing each victim of the attacks in a unique manner by exploring a representative—though fictional—life. However, I feel this argument is undermined by the beginning, in which we see Ally’s mother gunned down in the subway in front of her. This serves less to advance the plot than to exploit the audience’s emotions. These scenes, I feel, are a shameful blight on an otherwise okay—even enjoyable—film. I lay the blame mostly on writer Will Fetters, and director Allen Coulter, although the ending was filmed as—under the circumstances—tastefully as possible.
Remember Me is rated PG-13 for violence, language, sexual content, and smoking.
March 10, 2010
A Step Forward
Artist: Derek Webb
Album: Stockholm Syndrome
Label: INO Records (more or less)
Has Derek Webb become obsessed with his own controversial image? Is he slipping into that ugly universe of angry activists and pompous protesters who are so consumed with their own soapboxes that they forget about, well, everything else?
Having not talked to Webb personally, I can’t answer such questions with absolute certainty. But I can comment upon his latest album, Stockholm Syndrome, which is a remarkable piece of work that might just be the crowning achievement of his career, despite the slough of controversy surrounding its original release. If you’re really curious about said controversy, just do a quick internet search on Stockholm Syndrome in your free time. Personally, I am more interested in the album as a work of art, as a powerful musical statement produced by a distinctly talented craftsman.
Perhaps you have heard that on Stockholm Syndrome, Webb ditches the singer-songwriter strumming, the simple song structures, and the folk-tinged protest formula that characterized his earlier albums. You heard correctly. From start to finish, Stockholm Syndrome is an electronica-infused, highly manipulated, beat-heavy thunderstorm of a record.
What’s really impressive, however, is that despite all the twiddling of knobs and layering of synthesizer blips and bleeps, Webb’s pure, unadulterated voice still commands the attention of his listeners. And he hasn’t changed the topic of conversation. The big issues of oppression, poverty, and hypocrisy still saturate every song. This time, however, Webb manages to link his particular brand of socio-political awareness to creative and unusual musical forms, a bizarre marriage that diminishes neither and makes both more memorable.
“Black Eye” might be the most successful demonstration of this combination, as Webb’s earnest voice sounds casually confident over a sea of synthesizers and extra-equalized drums. “Cobra Con” continues to press the tempo with a chorus that kicks hard and lyrics that produce more puzzles than solutions. In fact, many of the lyrics on the album are, like the music that adorns them, artistically damaged and noticeably fragmentary. In this way, Webb forces his listeners to fill in the gaps, to make interpretive decisions.
For instance, I originally assumed “The Spirit vs. The Kick Drum” was just a fun song about nothing in particular. However, when I paid closer attention to the words Webb was singing, I released that it was no throw-away party song but a clever description of the ways in which we make God fit into our preconceived notions of what He should be.
Webb follows up this observation with “What Matters More,” which hammers home one of Webb’s favorite themes—that Christians should stop worrying about the little outward rules and regulations they have devised and start paying attention to the suffering of those who live next door to them. And he does all this over an addictive beat that sounds more like Kid A-era Radiohead than anything I’ve heard in a while.
Allow me to break stride and be very clear at this point. Stockholm Syndrome is not just a musical megaphone for Webb’s personal views on society and the state. It is at its very core a groundbreaking display of artistic prowess, a brilliant mish-mash of hip-hop, art-rock, retro-pop, and easy listening. Each song is different, each is unique, and each brings its own set of sonic delights. There are stale moments, sure, but there are also several transcendent passages, passages that rival anything happening in popular music this millennium. Forget the controversy for a minute. Forget all your preconceptions about Derek Webb and his message. Approach the album with open ears, and be prepared to be blown away.
Album: Stockholm Syndrome
Label: INO Records (more or less)
Has Derek Webb become obsessed with his own controversial image? Is he slipping into that ugly universe of angry activists and pompous protesters who are so consumed with their own soapboxes that they forget about, well, everything else?
Having not talked to Webb personally, I can’t answer such questions with absolute certainty. But I can comment upon his latest album, Stockholm Syndrome, which is a remarkable piece of work that might just be the crowning achievement of his career, despite the slough of controversy surrounding its original release. If you’re really curious about said controversy, just do a quick internet search on Stockholm Syndrome in your free time. Personally, I am more interested in the album as a work of art, as a powerful musical statement produced by a distinctly talented craftsman.
Perhaps you have heard that on Stockholm Syndrome, Webb ditches the singer-songwriter strumming, the simple song structures, and the folk-tinged protest formula that characterized his earlier albums. You heard correctly. From start to finish, Stockholm Syndrome is an electronica-infused, highly manipulated, beat-heavy thunderstorm of a record.
What’s really impressive, however, is that despite all the twiddling of knobs and layering of synthesizer blips and bleeps, Webb’s pure, unadulterated voice still commands the attention of his listeners. And he hasn’t changed the topic of conversation. The big issues of oppression, poverty, and hypocrisy still saturate every song. This time, however, Webb manages to link his particular brand of socio-political awareness to creative and unusual musical forms, a bizarre marriage that diminishes neither and makes both more memorable.
“Black Eye” might be the most successful demonstration of this combination, as Webb’s earnest voice sounds casually confident over a sea of synthesizers and extra-equalized drums. “Cobra Con” continues to press the tempo with a chorus that kicks hard and lyrics that produce more puzzles than solutions. In fact, many of the lyrics on the album are, like the music that adorns them, artistically damaged and noticeably fragmentary. In this way, Webb forces his listeners to fill in the gaps, to make interpretive decisions.
For instance, I originally assumed “The Spirit vs. The Kick Drum” was just a fun song about nothing in particular. However, when I paid closer attention to the words Webb was singing, I released that it was no throw-away party song but a clever description of the ways in which we make God fit into our preconceived notions of what He should be.
Webb follows up this observation with “What Matters More,” which hammers home one of Webb’s favorite themes—that Christians should stop worrying about the little outward rules and regulations they have devised and start paying attention to the suffering of those who live next door to them. And he does all this over an addictive beat that sounds more like Kid A-era Radiohead than anything I’ve heard in a while.
Allow me to break stride and be very clear at this point. Stockholm Syndrome is not just a musical megaphone for Webb’s personal views on society and the state. It is at its very core a groundbreaking display of artistic prowess, a brilliant mish-mash of hip-hop, art-rock, retro-pop, and easy listening. Each song is different, each is unique, and each brings its own set of sonic delights. There are stale moments, sure, but there are also several transcendent passages, passages that rival anything happening in popular music this millennium. Forget the controversy for a minute. Forget all your preconceptions about Derek Webb and his message. Approach the album with open ears, and be prepared to be blown away.
March 8, 2010
A Fantastic (but Frustrating) Fragment
Artist: Citizen Cope
Album: The Rainwater LP
Label: Rainwater Recordings, February 2010
Clarence Greenwood sounds tired. But that’s nothing new. In fact, I would argue that Greenwood's weathered, weary voice is what makes The Rainwater LP endlessly mesmerizing, despite its faults. On his fourth album as Citizen Cope, Clarence Greenwood continues to juxtapose tantalizing hip-hop and reggae-influenced beats with unusual chord patterns and melancholy yet menacing vocals—a combination that ends up sounding something like a chilled out island jam after a devastating hurricane.
The Rainwater LP begins on a sad note, with gently strummed guitar chords backed by walls of somber piano over which Greenwood croons “Keep asking, how long will my love it last?” The song is concise and curiously catchy—a great beginning to the record..
Greenwood continues to impress with the second track, “Healing Hands.” Over a more uptempo beat, Greenwood sings “I will never forget your healing hands my love, you gave me daylight, you gave me sunlight.” Then, as the song begins to unravel around reverse echoes and sampled snatches of the chorus, a transcendent moment of otherworldly beauty rises out of the ashes—a moment much too big for words.
From that nigh-unto-miraculous point, the album’s progress becomes rather rocky. The singable tunes are tolerable but not excellent and Greenwood’s sonic experiments backfire on a few of the more adventurous tracks. For instance, “Jericho” sounds like it could have been a good song until the unhinged synthesizer track took over, while the funky organ on “I Couldn’t Explain Why” undercuts the enchanting sound of Greenwood’s voice.
When I examined the lyrics of The Rainwater LP closely, I must admit that I was slightly disappointed. While Greenwood spreads an aura of grief, hope, and honesty with his distinctive vocal tones, the actual words are often almost nonsensical. I could forgive him this propensity for ambiguity, except that he has simultaneously developed a nasty habit of attacking the government, the press, and the wealthy with very generic, uninspired lines like “The actions of a few, have put a world in harm’s way, and history has proven that they killed our leaders dead.” Trying to sort out his meanings in these songs is a little like navigating an unfamiliar house in the dark. In the end, I find that it is easier to stop trying, sit down, and enjoy the shadows.
As a whole, I would say that the album is a failure. For one thing, it is altogether too short. There are a total of ten songs, two of which are just “acoustic” repeats of earlier tracks (minus the piano and drums). Perhaps if Greenwood had called the album The Rainwater LP I would be more understanding.
To be fair, I suspect that the brevity and simplicity of The Rainwater LP is at least in part due to the increased difficulty of producing independently. Greenwood has never been able to get along with record companies, having gone through two different labels in the span of three albums before going independent on this, his latest effort. Despite all this, I found the sound to be impressively crisp and thick, with a nice balance between the beats, the instruments, and the vocals.
Fans of Citizen Cope will also notice that the album marks a slight departure from previous work, as Greenwood focuses more on the guitar and vocals (probably resulting from the ease of recording more acoustic tracks). If Greenwood would write more songs with concrete images or coherent stories, I think I could get used to this more conventional singer-songwriter side of his personality. Until then, I will continue listening to the smattering of excellent tunes off The Rainwater LP and hope that Citizen Cope plays a show in my area soon.
Album: The Rainwater LP
Label: Rainwater Recordings, February 2010
Clarence Greenwood sounds tired. But that’s nothing new. In fact, I would argue that Greenwood's weathered, weary voice is what makes The Rainwater LP endlessly mesmerizing, despite its faults. On his fourth album as Citizen Cope, Clarence Greenwood continues to juxtapose tantalizing hip-hop and reggae-influenced beats with unusual chord patterns and melancholy yet menacing vocals—a combination that ends up sounding something like a chilled out island jam after a devastating hurricane.
The Rainwater LP begins on a sad note, with gently strummed guitar chords backed by walls of somber piano over which Greenwood croons “Keep asking, how long will my love it last?” The song is concise and curiously catchy—a great beginning to the record..
Greenwood continues to impress with the second track, “Healing Hands.” Over a more uptempo beat, Greenwood sings “I will never forget your healing hands my love, you gave me daylight, you gave me sunlight.” Then, as the song begins to unravel around reverse echoes and sampled snatches of the chorus, a transcendent moment of otherworldly beauty rises out of the ashes—a moment much too big for words.
From that nigh-unto-miraculous point, the album’s progress becomes rather rocky. The singable tunes are tolerable but not excellent and Greenwood’s sonic experiments backfire on a few of the more adventurous tracks. For instance, “Jericho” sounds like it could have been a good song until the unhinged synthesizer track took over, while the funky organ on “I Couldn’t Explain Why” undercuts the enchanting sound of Greenwood’s voice.
When I examined the lyrics of The Rainwater LP closely, I must admit that I was slightly disappointed. While Greenwood spreads an aura of grief, hope, and honesty with his distinctive vocal tones, the actual words are often almost nonsensical. I could forgive him this propensity for ambiguity, except that he has simultaneously developed a nasty habit of attacking the government, the press, and the wealthy with very generic, uninspired lines like “The actions of a few, have put a world in harm’s way, and history has proven that they killed our leaders dead.” Trying to sort out his meanings in these songs is a little like navigating an unfamiliar house in the dark. In the end, I find that it is easier to stop trying, sit down, and enjoy the shadows.
As a whole, I would say that the album is a failure. For one thing, it is altogether too short. There are a total of ten songs, two of which are just “acoustic” repeats of earlier tracks (minus the piano and drums). Perhaps if Greenwood had called the album The Rainwater LP I would be more understanding.
To be fair, I suspect that the brevity and simplicity of The Rainwater LP is at least in part due to the increased difficulty of producing independently. Greenwood has never been able to get along with record companies, having gone through two different labels in the span of three albums before going independent on this, his latest effort. Despite all this, I found the sound to be impressively crisp and thick, with a nice balance between the beats, the instruments, and the vocals.
Fans of Citizen Cope will also notice that the album marks a slight departure from previous work, as Greenwood focuses more on the guitar and vocals (probably resulting from the ease of recording more acoustic tracks). If Greenwood would write more songs with concrete images or coherent stories, I think I could get used to this more conventional singer-songwriter side of his personality. Until then, I will continue listening to the smattering of excellent tunes off The Rainwater LP and hope that Citizen Cope plays a show in my area soon.
March 5, 2010
Crazy Heart
It’s tough to say something clever about Crazy Heart, which is not really a movie that aspires to be clever. Except at the very first, when Jeff Bridge’s character Bad Blake pulls his ancient truck up to his first gig. He mutters how angry he is to be booked at a bowling alley, which homage to those, including myself, for whom Bridges will always be The Dude from The Big Lebowski.
Another thing that doesn’t recommend Crazy Heart is its plot, such as there is one. But story is more than plot, and this movie is a fine example of such an assertation. The movie tells the story of the redemption (although I might say it’s closer to an enlightenment) of Bad Blake, a Texas country music singer. At the beginning of the movie, he’s broke, constantly drunk, and struggling for dignity. In the midst of the movie, he meets a muse, Jean Craddock (Maggie Gyllenhaal), and bristles against his now super-successful former protégé, Tommy Sweet (Colin Farrell), a Keith Urban-type.
The story of Crazy Heart shows merely a peak and a valley for Bad, who surely has seen his share of both. It’s informative what is slightly different than what must have come before. Bad admits he fathered a child by (presumably) one of his many ex-wives, whom he alienates by virtual abandonment. But this time around Bad realizes the way to Jean’s heart (as opposed to her pants, which is easier) is to become befriend her son, Buddy. But mishandling Buddy is how he loses her, too.
Obviously, the music in a film about a musician is crucial. Even as an ardent fan of Texas country music, I was still charmed by the original compositions in the film. Although “The Weary Kind,” which gives the film its title, has received deserved praise (a Golden Globe and an Oscar nomination), I’m personally partial to “Hold On You” and “Fallin’ & Flyin’.” Both selections offer the rollicking charm that mirrors Bad’s, making him sympathetic in the face of just and self-made consequences.
Speaking of liking Bad, Bridges is outstanding here. His performance feels exceedingly natural. I checked his biography after the film to see if Bridges was from Texas (he’s not—although he famously played a Texan in The Last Picture Show). He helps make Bad likable in part because he always seems like a likable guy, but the charisma differs from what he displayed in playing, for instance, The Dude. Gyllenhaal herself was stunningly convincing, and essentially this was a two-person film. The strength of their acting causes all boats to rise.
The ending feels rushed, certainly, but not unnatural. I think Crazy Heart has a happy ending, but it’s not as happy as it could have been. What sets the ending’s positive tone is Bad’s self-confident acceptance of his lot as a genius at songwriting but amateur at making interpersonal relationships. Such is the story that makes a plot less than necessary.
Crazy Heart is rated R for language and brief sexuality.
Another thing that doesn’t recommend Crazy Heart is its plot, such as there is one. But story is more than plot, and this movie is a fine example of such an assertation. The movie tells the story of the redemption (although I might say it’s closer to an enlightenment) of Bad Blake, a Texas country music singer. At the beginning of the movie, he’s broke, constantly drunk, and struggling for dignity. In the midst of the movie, he meets a muse, Jean Craddock (Maggie Gyllenhaal), and bristles against his now super-successful former protégé, Tommy Sweet (Colin Farrell), a Keith Urban-type.
The story of Crazy Heart shows merely a peak and a valley for Bad, who surely has seen his share of both. It’s informative what is slightly different than what must have come before. Bad admits he fathered a child by (presumably) one of his many ex-wives, whom he alienates by virtual abandonment. But this time around Bad realizes the way to Jean’s heart (as opposed to her pants, which is easier) is to become befriend her son, Buddy. But mishandling Buddy is how he loses her, too.
Obviously, the music in a film about a musician is crucial. Even as an ardent fan of Texas country music, I was still charmed by the original compositions in the film. Although “The Weary Kind,” which gives the film its title, has received deserved praise (a Golden Globe and an Oscar nomination), I’m personally partial to “Hold On You” and “Fallin’ & Flyin’.” Both selections offer the rollicking charm that mirrors Bad’s, making him sympathetic in the face of just and self-made consequences.
Speaking of liking Bad, Bridges is outstanding here. His performance feels exceedingly natural. I checked his biography after the film to see if Bridges was from Texas (he’s not—although he famously played a Texan in The Last Picture Show). He helps make Bad likable in part because he always seems like a likable guy, but the charisma differs from what he displayed in playing, for instance, The Dude. Gyllenhaal herself was stunningly convincing, and essentially this was a two-person film. The strength of their acting causes all boats to rise.
The ending feels rushed, certainly, but not unnatural. I think Crazy Heart has a happy ending, but it’s not as happy as it could have been. What sets the ending’s positive tone is Bad’s self-confident acceptance of his lot as a genius at songwriting but amateur at making interpersonal relationships. Such is the story that makes a plot less than necessary.
Crazy Heart is rated R for language and brief sexuality.
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