s wild, 22-year-old Doolittle Lynn (Tommy Lee Jones) collects bets on his latest feat of daredevilry – driving a Jeep up an enormous hill – 13-year-old Loretta (Sissy Spacek), the daughter of hardworking coal miner Ted Webb (Levon Helm), looks on with a glimmer in her eye. But “Doo” is one of many men who has little hope of finding honest work in poverty-ridden Kentucky in the mid-‘40s; if he isn’t going to end up in the mines, his only other option is the moonshine business, like unfortunate Lee Dollarhide (William Sanderson), which only leads to trouble. Worrying over professional prospects doesn’t stop him from flirting in return, however, as he also recognizes the appeal of young Loretta.

The Webb family (including seven other siblings) isn’t pleased with Loretta and Doo beginning to hang out all the time, but the eldest girl is in love. “I just can’t help it.” A particularly big hurdle will be asking for her hand in marriage, though there isn’t much Ted and his wife can do once the unlikely couple set their minds to it. And so, in an inordinately short period of time, they’re standing before a judge. This, of course, forces Loretta to grow up uncomfortably fast, particularly when it comes to her role as a housewife, while Doo realizes just as quickly that he’s wedded an inexperienced child (he soon gives her a book entitled “Sex for Newlyweds” due to their understandable friction in that department).

“I ain’t never gonna see my little girl again.” Loretta’s early years are unremarkable, following a path of depressing, potential-less mediocrity; without prospects or an education, she’s saddled with a hasty choice for a spouse, four children in just a few years, the crushing routines of housekeeping and child-rearing, and a standard yet disheartening scenario of privation. It’s quite the hole to dig out of to reach a position beyond being utterly forgotten; it’s a tremendous success story that Loretta’s life could possibly shift from this normalcy and uninspiring convention. And yet, after receiving a guitar as an anniversary gift, and then getting abusively pressured into performing at a honky-tonk, Loretta’s course is monumentally changed.

“I like the way you sing.” Indeed, the singing is exceptional, made more phenomenal by the fact that Spacek does her own crooning, performing Lynn’s music in such a striking fashion that anyone’s first guess would be that it couldn’t possibly be Spacek’s voice (she was hand-picked by the real Lynn, upon whose autobiography this film is based, despite the actress’ notable previous roles in “Carrie” and “Badlands” having no impact on the selection). Beverly D’Angelo, playing Patsy Cline during the second act, also impressively does her own singing. Even though the bulk of the plot merely follows along with the development of a million-to-one music career – in typical biopic fashion, with montages, map graphics, familial dramas (including jealousy and emotional fatigue), and humorous sequences of demanding that she be given a chance – the chart-topping songs really help to propel this beyond an ordinary project.

Additionally, Spacek is a delight, giving a pleasant warmth and innocence and simpleness to an unprepared, ignorant “hillbilly” character, suddenly thrust into the spotlight. She’s curiously cinematic in her understated, timorous, temperate way, steadily gaining a touch of independence and strength as she learns to value herself and recognize the control she has over her career and life. It’s quite the tale of unlikely accomplishments, charting an inspirational rise to stardom. Strangely, however, the adversity is primarily at the start, due to her terribly humble upbringing; her time of fame doesn’t contain a wealth of ups and downs. It’s largely a straightforward chronicle of making it to the top and coping with celebrity status – such as the commonplace conflicts of overbearing fans, a stressful road schedule, and mental health concerns. The finale reiterates the pressures and expectations of nationwide renown, but it’s minimal and ambiguous; the journey is mostly manageable (and devoid of specific resolutions or explanations, chiefly when it comes to episodes of ill health). There isn’t even close to a tear-jerker scene to be found, which tends to be a staple of these types of biographies, preventing “Coal Miner’s Daughter” from having much resonance – outside of the catchiness of the various tunes throughout. “Successful people don’t quit.”

– Mike Massie