Movie Review: Country Strong, a Film That Makes Convicts Cry

Review of Country Strong, starring Gwyneth Paltrow and Tim McGraw, a 2010 film about a country music star whose comeback tour is on a collision course with her severe alcoholism.

Even if you don't end up loving it (which you will), the four corners of the movie's love rectangle aren't exactly difficult to look at.

"Waylon said it best when he sang to Willie: If you see me gettin' smaller, I'm leavin', don't be grievin', just gotta get away from here. If you see me gettin' smaller, don't worry, I'm in no hurry; I've got the right to disappear."

Kelly Canter (Gwyneth Paltrow), Country Strong

If you had told me in high school that I'd be writing a favorable review of a movie about a country music star played by Gwyneth Paltrow, I'd have looked at you like you had two heads: I wasn't into country, and Gwyneth Paltrow was never on my radar.

It wasn't that I disliked her, although I found her name annoyingly difficult both to say and spell; just that she seemed so very typical... modestly talented and mega-successful, her views and image carefully curated by PR professionals.

When Joan Rivers ripped into Gwyneth Paltrow about her "conscious uncoupling" from Brat Pitt, rightfully savaging her for her pretentiousness about her divorce, I cackled.

Later on, I'd learn that Gwyneth Paltrow's early-career days might very well have involved some of the hard partying that her Country Strong character, Kelly Canter, lives for. In fact, Paltrow once made a joke about the '90s being the last time that it was possible to be a celebrity and "do cocaine without getting caught."

Perhaps the role of Kelly Canter fits Paltrow so snugly because she's lived it. She has a fragile quality, as well as a subtle stiltedness that comes across as a mild dissociation from some of the scenes of the film, which add depth and interpretive possibility; they suit a character who has been utterly unraveled by her stardom, relying upon alcohol to numb her confusion about whether she is herself or is merely playing herself.

***

I saw Country Strong during a weekend movie night at a long-term rehab called Insight House, which we patients referred to as Hindsight House, in beautiful* Utica, NY.

*Not beautiful. Not at all.

I watched it with a group of guys, many of whom had done significant time in county jail and / or state prison. There were about 12 of us packed into a room that only comfortably fit half that many, and I only joined in because I had read every last book on the floor at that point, and it was too early to go to sleep.

Suffice it to say that, at the end of the film, I saw tears in the eyes of a couple of guys who I would have bet fingers would never allow themselves to cry in public.

"She did it her way," Tom said.

"I'd watch that again," from Sandy.

There was a weird, wistful quiet as we headed back to our rooms after the movie ended.

I don't know what happened to Tom, but Sandy and several other patients died of OD within three years of the night that we watched Country Strong together.

***

At the heart of Country Strong is a love rectangle (quadrangle?) of sorts.

There's Kelly Canter, Gwyneth Paltrow's character, a country musician at the height of an A-list career, who has recently been released from rehab a month early to begin a three-city comeback tour. The tour has been organized by her husband, James Canter (Tim McGraw), with whom she is still professionally partnered despite their romantic estrangement.

Kelly agrees to the tour on the condition that her opening act be Beau Hutton (Garrett Hedlund), a young singer who works in the rehab, with whom she has become smitten.

James had planned on Chiles Stanton, a beauty queen "Country Barbie" who he believes could be the next Kelly, as opener. Both Kelly and Beau trash Chiles, but she joins the tour as co-opener nevertheless.

The stakes are high: Kelly's image is imperiled after it became public knowledge that she miscarried her baby after falling while performing drunk during her last concert before rehab.

On the night of her first comeback concert, a "fan" sends a package containing a bloody doll with a note that reads "baby killer," which so disturbs Kelly that she can hardly perform.

As the tour progresses, Kelly teeters between recovery and relapse as she confronts the realities of her addiction, her failed marriage, her waning limelight, and her fear of being alone.

***

There is nothing nice or neat about this movie.

Kelly and James still love each other deeply. They lament what stardom has done to their marriage and imagine a smaller, fuller universe in which fame never found them.

Even though their marriage is DOA, James desperately wants to save Kelly's life. In order to do so, he is forced to rely upon Beau, his romantic rival.

Beau is Kelly's saving grace; she leans on him to get through the pressures of public performance during early recovery. Though their love is passionate, it becomes clear that Beau is codependent, and that Kelly is using him in a way. Unlike James, who has been through the alcoholic ringer with Kelly already, Beau doesn't fully grasp how dire, senseless, and repetitive Kelly's disease is, and it seems unlikely that Beau's and Kelly's infatuation with each other could mature into anything deeper or longer-term.

Simultaneously, Beau begins to have feelings for Chiles, whose squeaky-clean, Southern-naif image belies a troubled, trailer-trash past.

On her part, Kelly initially ignores and resents Chiles, who she must view as a potential replacement both in terms of her career and James' and Beau's affections. However, she comes to respect the younger girl's talent, to give her advice, and to see in Chiles much of her earlier self.

It sounds like too much, and it would be if these dynamics weren't handled with such understatement, grace, and humor.

***

Again, nothing about this movie is neat, linear, or satisfying.

It's a messy story about a talented, charismatic, deeply mentally ill woman who senses her doom but holds onto her love and creative soul nonetheless. It's about a kind of heroism that addicts, soldiers, and martyrs all sometimes display.

The film rises far higher than the typical addictive narrative in that it explores the dynamics of codependence and shared suffering that ripple outward from the addict, as well as the unique pressures that addicted public figures are entrapped by. It achieves something special by eschewing the happy Hollywood ending in favor of a conclusion that is far less palatable and at the same time much truer to most people's experiences with addiction.

I won't ruin the ending. Suffice it to say, again, that this film made hardened convicts cry. It has stayed with me enough that I've added Garrett Hedlund's song "Timing is Everything," which plays during the final scene, to my list of favorites.

This film is beautiful, tragic, and complicated, and it will speak to anyone who is an addict or who has loved one.

It is one of the best movies about addiction that I've ever seen.

Watch it.

My friend Sandy Oney, who passed away of a heroin OD in 2016. I'm comfortable using his full name for two reasons: One, his family has publicly acknowledged his cause of death, and two, Sandy once confided in me how sad it made him that his two boys would find articles about their dad's "mobile meth lab" shenanigans when they Googled his name as they grew up. On the off chance that his sons read this, I want them to know that their dad was so much more than his addiction: He was a kind, buoyant guy who contributed his level head to a fraught treatment environment in which too many high-intensity men were under far too much stress while cooped up together during a snowy sledgehammer of an Upstate NY winter. Despite being a bodybuilder who other guys naturally looked up to and wanted to be around, Sandy was the opposite of a bully; he used his charisma to level the social playing field and to urge his peers on in their recovery. He lost a long, brutal battle against addiction, but he helped many fellow sufferers and created countless beautiful memories along the way. Rest easy, brotha.