you'll do yourself a disservice if don't watch this movie.

I was preparing to apologize for the recent glut of "serious, personal posts" in lieu of brainless pop-culture trivia (because, 'brace yerself, Effie,' here comes another reflective one) but realized I can scrap the apology because today's blurb is -- technically -- a movie review. Of a movie that's snagging Jeff "Stark Industries" Bridges a slew of well-deserved awards. So it's timely. Relevant. Therefore: no apology.

More to the point: I'd owe everyone an apology if I didn't encourage seeing "Crazy Heart." I walked into it blindly, knowing only that Jeff Bridges won the Golden Globe and the SAG award for his role and that there was "music" in it - that was the extent of my familiarity. I just hope I can manage to do the emotional experience justice here...

Left the theater feeling like I needed more time to process everything -- because the story was well-told, the script beautifully real, the characters' struggles surprisingly authentic, sure -- but also because I was so unexpectedly haunted and exhausted and circumspect afterward in the sort of singularly bittersweet way that only really well-constructed films manage to trigger. It was equal parts unconventional coming-of-age saga (the character was 57 years old, for instance) and poignant Addiction Fairy Tale (sounds oxymoronic - stick with me here).

The nutshell premise: old, washed-up country singer with a whiskey problem needs some cash (because playing old bowling alleys to equally washed-up old fans doesn't pay the bills and just barely keeps gas in the Suburban). Agrees to write some songs for his old protege, the "hot young country star" tearing up the charts. Meets a plucky young reporter along the way, falls awkwardly in love while deteriorating into an alcoholic death grip. Standard bio-pic + addiction issues = Academy Award nomination formula.

The difference: Jeff Bridges made it possible to really, really love, cheer for, and commiserate with his train-wreck character. Maggie Gyllenhaal nailed the "woman who should know better but is charmed in spite of herself" journalist character who gets a front row seat to the destruction of addiction and makes the smart decision to steer clear of this old man's pending self-implosion for the sake of her young son.

So, about that Addiction Fairy Tale.

This film took the same general story arc of last year's Mickey Rourke vehicle "The Wrestler" but "Crazy Heart" managed to twist that arc into something closer to a happy ending (if that's possible, since - without spoiling anything - we still end the movie as we began: with a lonely old man alone on the road). But in this case, the lonely old man's salvation arrived in the form of the Love of a Good Woman; with the plucky journalist as his goal and inspiration, lonely old man kicks the whiskey habit, starts writing songs again, comes back to himself, gets back on tour, and "makes something" of himself before it's too late. He's motivated to impress her. Spurred by the hope that if he can clean up his act - and stay clean - he'll win her back. That she'll love him for how far he's come. Powerful motivation, to see what could be yours if only you weren't already beholden to the bottle...kick the habit. Write new, beautiful music -- music inspired by that Good Woman.

It's a beautifully intoxicating Hollywood fallacy. One with which I was all too intimately acquainted...except....

Except in my case, the love of this good woman wasn't enough. Would never be enough. And where loving wasn't enough, leaving certainly wasn't enough, either. Begging, pleading, reasoning, rationalizing, bargaining, punishing, withdrawing, beseeching - none of those were inspiration enough to propel the tortured alcoholic under my roof into a treatment program. Or even into self-imposed, or doctor-imposed, or wife-imposed sobriety. So it really was rather like watching a fairy tale unfold on-screen - in this lovely fantasy the woman makes a stand for herself and her son, acknowledging that her gut instinct to run far away was probably right all along, but not without a nod to the fact that the things we do for love typically defy logic. She sends the addict away, that's all the motivation he needs to kick the habit -- before we know it he's free and clean and determined and creative all over again. Reaching his potential. Doing what he can to make the Good Woman proud.

Now, lest I misconstrue this as some sort of wistful plea for a different, fairy tale ending for myself it's worth mentioning that Plucky Journalist and I agree on one point: it's best to move on. We're wasting our lives to try to save them - it's a victorless battle.

In her case: she had a son to protect and nothing (no love song or promise of a better future or all of the golden years in the world) would ever override the maternal imperative to protect her child at any cost.

In my case: I just fell out of love. And inexplicably in spite of that, still wanted to see him make the best of himself, still wanted to see him succeed, still wanted him to have a happy ending.

Right up until the moment I realized I was robbing myself of my own happy ending while tending to his demons.

While trying to keep a lid on them.

While trying to keep them from taking me down with him.

Nearly five years of failed incentives later, I chose myself and my right to a happy ending. Then found myself in a movie theater watching it play out in other character's lives. Lives where treatment programs and twelve-steps really work. Where it's never too late for a second chance. Where saying no to addiction leads to giant royalty checks and sweet, poetic moments of closure in scenic places where tender conversation and long, meaningful looks let the audience know both parties will "be just fine."

This Good Woman has no idea if the one she left will "be just fine."

Only that she will be.