Inside Llewyn Davis

Joel and Ethan Coen, like Garrison Keillor, are an American treasure. I speak of them in the singular, as they are a single unit, writing and directing 16 films together over the past 30 years. Their body of work includes Blood Simple, Raising Arizona, Barton Fink, Fargo, The Big Lebowski, O Brother, Where Art Thou?, the Oscar winning  No Country For Old Men, True Grit, and now Inside Llewyn Davis.

They seem able to adapt their style to the needs of the story. Comedy (Lebowski), Western (True Grit), procedural (Fargo), quirky period piece (O Brother), portrait of a struggling less than talented artist (Barton Fink) – they bring just the right sensibility to each piece, with no one signature style. They can play it straight, for laughs, ironically arch, even tense thriller. They have no trouble folding strong willed A list actors into less than flattering roles; George Clooney, Brad Pitt, Tom Hanks, Matt Damon, John Goodman, Jeff Bridges, Catherine Zeta-Jones, Nicholas Cage, and Tommy Lee Jones have all been melded into the ensembles which populate a Coen film.

The biggest names in Llewyn Davis  seem content with minor, but key roles. John Goodman does little more than sleep, pass out in a restroom stall, and belittle the main character for having no focus in life (he deserves it). Oscar winning F. Murray Abraham merely sits in a chair, listening to Davis sing and play one song, then delivers another devastating critique. And the hyperactive, preternaturally cute and upbeat Justin Timberlake does sing, but barely manages to crack a smile, much less deliver his usually devastating charisma.

The movie must be carried by Guatemalan born Oscar Isaac (nee´ Hernandez), artfully hidden behind a full head of curly black hair and well trimmed beard. A Juilliard graduate, he sings and plays the early 60s folk songs himself, with a bit more depth of emotion than the other caricatures he shares the stage with at the pass-the-hat basement club stage, The Gaslight (except for his final night, when he is followed by a curly haired gnome with a nasal twang, singing “Farewell”.)

But Llewyn (despite his Welsh first name) is no Dylan. As a caustic Carey Mulligan (playing Justin Timberlake’s wife, but pregnant possibly by Llewyn) tells him, “You’re King Midas’ evil brother; everything you touch turns to crap.” The film, which covers one week of his couch surfing life in Manhattan (with road trip to Chicago thrown in), shows him alienating everyone and anyone who might help him reach his dream of folk music star: his sister, the Gaslight club manager, a star-making club owner in Chicago, his patrons on the West Side (a Columbia professor and his wife).

Llewyn sings with more depth and emotion than anyone else in the film (except for that last nod towards the character billed as “young Bob” in the credits), but that’s his curse, not his blessing. He can’t bottle that passion off stage – it just comes out at all the wrong times, in all the wrong ways. He’s really something of an asshole, albeit with a charming leer and a way with words.

This film is both mesmerizing and difficult to watch. The Coens once again deliver a taut, convincing character study and story, but the character and his story are something less than endearing. It’s hard to root for Llewyn, when he won’t even root for himself.

Still, worth watching; 3.5/5 stars.

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