By Alan Scherstuhl
By Amy Nicholson
By Charles Taylor
By Stephanie Zacharek
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By CAROLINA DEL BUSTO
By AMY NICHOLSON
By Amy Nicholson
One From the Heart
Jeff Bridges shines as a country-music has-been. Will the elusive Oscar finally be his?
Enticing Jeff Bridges to voice a washed-up surfer dude in the 2007 children’s movie Surf’s Up, the filmmakers sent the actor a video of an animated penguin declaiming a few of his lines from The Big Lebowski. They probably didn’t need to work that hard: An avid surfer, Bridges has dropped in and out of Dudeville many times in his 40-year career. But the preternaturally good-humored actor relished the joke almost as much as he enjoys playing occasional gigs with his band in, as he puts it with some bemusement, “a sea of dudes” at Lebowski festivals.
Playing big lugs began for the handsome Bridges with his turn as the dimly bulbed, duck-tailed young Apollo who so ineptly deflowers Cybill Shepherd, then offers himself as Vietnam cannon fodder in The Last Picture Show (1971). Earlier this year, he played a tripped-out army poobah in Grant Heslov’s The Men Who Stare at Goats. But the movie that’s inspiring chatter about the Best Actor award that has inexplicably eluded Bridges through four Oscar nominations is Crazy Heart, a modestly budgeted new indie by first-time director Scott Cooper, in which the actor, who plays a burned-out country-music star ripe for either salvation or damnation, sings his own numbers.
Bridges, who turned 60 last week and can slump his lithe linebacker build into lumpish inertia as needed, is an intensely physical presence who leads with his body in a way that often obscures the emotional intelligence he lends his characters—a gallery of American manhood in all its compromised, destroyed or hopeful ambiguity. In Seabiscuit, Tucker and The Contender, Bridges brought his relaxed charm to bear on expansive, optimistic visions of American leadership, just as he expertly curdled that charm into villainy in Jagged Edge and Iron Man.
For my money, though, his best roles have been damaged men who subtly suggest the range of their potential, for better and worse. He was a wayward slacker who suddenly took matters into his own hands in 1981’s little-seen Cutter’s Way,and he was appallingly persuasive in The Door In the Floor (2004) as a man incapable of acknowledging his grief over the loss of a child. In between, he was heartstopping in Martin Bell’s American Heart (1992) as a paroled bank robber, failed by his parents and now set to fail his own son. Bridges could be that same man—a couple of decades on—in Crazy Heart, as the drunken, clapped-out singer Bad Blake trying, in some small corner of himself, to be good.
Onscreen, Bridges makes it all look easy. In person, he’s affable and courtly, but he admits that even deciding whether to accept a role is torture. Over lunch at the Four Seasons hotel in Los Angeles, he recounts a dream he once had: “I was going down a very wide river with big cliffs on the other side,” he says. “Scattered throughout this river were huge whirlpools, and my task was to navigate through them. At the vortex of each whirlpool was a beautiful jewel, and I’d get mesmerized for a second and go, ‘Oh, oh, I almost got caught.’ I’d go on, and the same thing would happen.” Bridges, who draws, takes photos and does ceramics between acting gigs, turned that dream into a painting titled Jeff Makes a Decision. “That’s my process,” he says with a self-amused laugh. “Once you say yes to a movie, you’re automatically saying no to all the other beautiful jewels.”
Once he’s committed, fear sets in. “The dude side of me doesn’t like to be challenged, you know? At the same time, it’s what I respond to,” he says, recalling being overcome with awe upon seeing the great Robert Ryan’s sweaty palms on the set of John Frankenheimer’s The Iceman Cometh (1973), a gig that Bridges turned down until a colleague yelled at him for being an idiot. “Talk about fear!” says Bridges. “I asked Ryan, ‘After all these years?’ And he said, ‘Yes. I’d really be scared if I wasn’t scared. Don’t try to get rid of that thing.’ So I had a wonderful time making that movie, and after that, I said, ‘I can do this for the rest of my life.’”
“The ones I end up doing are the ones I just can’t refuse,” says Bridges. “And that has served me well.” He tried to avoid Crazy Heart for a while. “What distracted me was that it was about music, which I love. But there was no music attached to it. About a year later, my friend [music producer] T-Bone Burnett—we go back 30 years to Heaven’s Gate—who also had the script, said, ‘Yeah, let’s do it.’ So we started to get excited. It was definitely one I couldn’t say no to. The jewel was too gorgeous.”
Crazy Heart is a promising first feature for Cooper (himself an actor), but Bridges enlarges, in every sense, the movie’s familiar territory of self-destructive celebrity. “When he’s onstage, that’s his home. That’s a typical thing with performers like that: Once they get to success, they start to abuse themselves,” says Bridges, who spends a lot of time around musicians, all of whom he fondly calls his dear friends. (Cooper had originally wanted to base the movie on the life of Merle Haggard, says Bridges. “But Merle had been married five or six times, so it was hard to get the rights through all his wives.”) Wading with his usual abandon and an exposed big gut into the defiant self-immolation of Bad Blake, Bridges makes room for an open destiny for this mumbling wreck of a man, craning his neck forward as if interrogating the world for whatever crumbs of insight or salvation it might spare him.
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