To the uninitiated, it's probably most useful to declare the Cohens consistent, if nothing else; consistently adult, consistently juvenile, consistently earnest, sarcastic, innovative, reiterative; simple and complicated. Inside Llewyn Davis is all of these things, and... sort of... less. Though fortunately more than the sum of its parts.
As with most of their previous stuff, Llewyn Davis enjoys the faintest spritz of eau de magical realism, or at least a whiff of its metaphorical cousin once removed. While some find this flirtation charming, I find it slightly craven and even cynically appropriative at this stage, utilising its devices and traction without incurring the scorn so often flung at the genre. Would it kill the Cohens to quit their borrowing and go the whole hog, just one darn time; to bite off something more than they might be comfortable chewing? And while yes, we see the sweaters, irksome are the punches pulled instead of landed squarely on the face of the matter to hand, given Llewyn's potential as a weapon and indulgent folk's low-hanging fruit. Too much tee hee, not enough burn.