(2.5.12. Licensed under Creative Commons at Flickr.)
Two Thursdays ago, I was lucky enough to attend a pre-release screening at the Charles Theater of Inside Llewyn Davis, the Coen Brothers’ latest project. It isn’t scheduled to hit theaters until December 5th, but when it does, I say it's definitely worth viewing.
In all honesty though, it’s an achingly unsatisfying film to sit through. At every turn, I found myself trying so hard to empathize with a character that I just simply could not stand. We catch protagonist, folk musician Llewyn Davis (played by Oscar Isaac), at a fragile stage in his life. Still dealing with the suicide of his partner and the consequent slump in his solo music career, Llewyn couch surfs his way around Greenwich Village, disrupting the lives of superficial old friends and reluctant past lovers, as he fumbles to make ends meet. Cynical and jaded, peevish and tired, Llewyn is a character on the cusp of giving up altogether. The signs of it are everywhere: in his lackluster eyes, his slumped shoulders, his deep sighs.
As unfortunate his situation is though, I found Llewyn extremely unlikable and self-pitying to an unreasonable degree, wallowing in his misfortune and using it as justification for his lack of motivation. Rather than taking charge, Llewyn resigns to external forces. Sheer coincidence dictates the course of his life: when his friend’s cat slips through a crack in the front door, when he lands a much-needed gig with the help of his best friend, Jim, when the doctor accidentally lets it slip that Llewyn has a son in Akron (the result of a cancelled abortion). It seems a window of hope has opened up for Llewyn when he scores a chance to play for Bud Grossman, music big shot and owner of the famous concert venue, Gate of Horn. But even the way by which Llewyn travels to Gate of Horn is entirely subject to fate; he hitchhikes from New York City to Chicago.
The film follows his venture to Chicago. It is the middle of winter but Llewyn is too strapped for money to buy a coat. Guitar in tow and thumb in air, he finally hails down a car. But the free ride comes with terribly unpleasant company, a drug-addled jazz enthusiast who spends every waking moment insulting Llewyn and his folk music. After an unbearably long and uncomfortable trek, Llewyn reaches the imposing double doors of Gate of Horn. The trip is set up as a perfect plot arc and this moment, the opportunity for him to turn his career around, is the climax. Conventionally, we expect this kind of success or failure situation to transpire emotionally. But when Llewyn plays for Grossman, it ends in the sinking words, “I don’t see a lot of money here.” Llewyn nods, he understands, says okay, end of scene. There is no uproar, no groveling, no last-ditch cry for reconsideration. Llewyn leaves the venue as quietly as he enters it. It leaves us confounded.
As viewers, we yearn for progression, for resolution, for things we can predict. It’s only human nature. But the film consistently deflects our notion of a happy ending. After hitting a cat with a car, we expect Llewyn to stop and save it. Instead, he watches the injured cat limp into the shadow and then apathetically drives away. After seeing a road sign pointing to Akron, we expect Llewyn to make the turn, search for and eventually reunite with his son. Instead, he bypasses the city without a second thought. Furthermore, the structure of the film is inherently static. It ends in the same scene it begins with: Llewyn alone in an alleyway, having just been beaten up. This is what I mean when I say the film is unsatisfying. Llewyn spends the entire film drifting, making no headway; he shirks all forms of responsibility, leaving doors unopened, loose ends untied. In a way, the film is almost anti-escapist. It’s unmercifully honest. It’s slice of life.
And the subtle cinematography honors this reality, capturing all the small details: dust particles in the air illuminated by the harsh morning sunlight, chalky embers drooping from a lit cigarette tip. The camera lingers on close-ups for just the right amount of time, catching the most minute of expressions: an extra blink, a fleeting eye-roll, a brief pursing of the lips, a shiver. Inside Llewyn Davis is as raw and authentic as it gets.
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