The word on films

Call me sexist, but I reckon The Notebook is the definitive chick flick. Not because of the woefully clichéd story, just-rough-enough male lead and cheesy-as-hell “I-wrote-you-every-day” line. These things don’t hinder the case but the real reason I have this opinion is I have never personally encountered a woman who hates it. Most of the male film fiends I know groan at its mere mention. The female cinephiles on the other hand (all of whom have opinions I usually respect) tend to shuffle their feet as they sheepishly admit they “sorta, kinda, like it”. This overlong intro is designed to show you: I don’t get this stuff, so feel free to disregard the following vilification of a film based on a book by the same author.

 Initially Dear John promised more. This time the male lead, John (Channing Tatum), is almost a person rather than a cardboard cut-out. Its clichés are also as much about making Savannah (Amanda Seyfried) an adorable and quirky saviour for John, as they are showing how brooding and troubled he is.

Halfway through however, the wheels fall off dramatically. Character and motivation go out the window as we lose Savannah’s screen time, never to identify with her again. The film paints itself into a corner morally speaking, and we stop understanding why we should care about their feelings for each other. Tatum is still charismatic, Seyfried is even quite good (despite having little to work with), there’s even a great turn from Richard Jenkins as John’s father; but Dear John fails in the final delivery.

Never thought I’d say it, but this isn’t even The Notebook.

It’s a little depressing to walk into an empty cinema to watch the frontrunner for best actor this close to the Oscars; especially when Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief has a line stretching round the corner. But it’s no real surprise. The misery-soaked tale of an alcoholic, country music has-been isn’t exactly Friday night date fodder.

Jeff Bridges really is brilliant in the central role however. He plays Bad Blake, a man whose song-writing talent is matched only by his self-destructive bitterness.  He’s playing crappy gigs, to bowling alleys full of audiences clinging to better times with the same desperate grip he has on his steel-string. But a glimpse of happiness appears in the form of music journalist Jean (Maggie Gyllenhaal), who just might be the inspiration to lift him up.

This romance, like the film itself, lives and dies on the performances of these two great players. It’s very hard to buy this young, intelligent, beautiful woman being attracted to such a wreck of a man – this goes beyond broken-wing syndrome into a whole new level of romantic masochism. But the one attractive quality we get out of Bad, is the undeniable sad honesty he carries himself with; a trait which Jean’s presence only heightens.

Crazy Heart meanders a little round the middle, occasionally feels like The Wrestler with guitars, and doesn’t always hit the high emotional notes; but the third act is incredibly strong. The film ends up as an imperfect but wailing tribute to a bitter cowboy, and it wouldn’t be a crime to see Bridges get the gong on this one.