What do you tell someone about a Cohen Brothers movie? You'll love it, trust me. Not at all formulaic. Action packed. Stuffed to the gills with loveable rogues. That would be a pretty universal no. Ever met someone who can articulate precisely why they pay to see one? Again, no. Even so, what I'm about to say is tantamount to blasphemy- Barton Fink and No Country for Old Men bored me more than anything, I think them overrated and the prospect of more Cohenic genius feels... like being invited to spectate hot sex between two people I dislike. Ambivalent. I'll confess also to feelings of confusion and dismay at the promise of folk music; to not knowing when they're taking the piss because it all looks like a pisstake to me. And you know, it got so much darn festival oxygen... I'll cop to scowling at that too.
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.
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.
Davis is a folk singer and human ingrown toenail shuffling between couches in Greenwich Village, 1961, down to his last hundy after losing his offsider to suicide. The narrative doubles back over itself in a series of loops familiar to anyone afflicted by the creative impulse; getting dicked by your representation, arbitrary rejection, the desultory mining of played-out friendships, petty rivalries, the bloodied perversity, the weight of your own limbs as you drift inexorably toward the prospect of abandoning the only thing that keeps you breathing. The universality of both these unhappy truths and their masochistic savour lie at the heart of ILD's success. There is no catharsis, no wind machine, no mercy, no gilding of the dour lily that is Llewyn himself- that wight at once too good and too darn faulty to prevail- only the karmic spiral and moments of painfully intimate identification. Full marks to Oscar Isaac for delivering such perfect and unlovely pitch; he is excellent in all respects. As are Goodman, who refines that glorious shit with every innings, a grunting Hedlund and his mesmerising dirt lip and others comprising a top-shelf constellation of minor players. Both Mulligan and her character are less convincing; I know Jean is supposed to thwacketh with bitter wings, but her delivery felt too screechy and uneven to be convincingly screechy and uneven, if you know what I mean. It felt stiff, a little tone-deaf, and while one might lay this at the feet of the writing in this instance, tone and assurance are problems I've had with many of Mulligan's performances, except for her work in McQueen's despondent Shame.
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.
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.
Visually, ILD benefits inestimably from typically beautiful, if understated compositions and a soft, depleted palette, an autumnal Kodachrome that is such a relief from the garish treatments trotted out of late (serves me right for fucking myself in the eyes with shit like Pacific Rim.) Aurally, it profits from some fine vocal performances from the players themselves, which impressed me retrospectively. I'm clueless as to the depth and value of the oeuvre's in-jokes, but I'm sure there are plenty of easter eggs arrayed for the cognoscenti. The Cohens' artless and/or cruelly puerile delight in directing our attention to every curious tic and bizarre convention they've observed is a guilty and eternal pleasure. And of course, anyone who can exploit Justin Timberlake's conceit to the extent that he'll submit to being the panto horse's arse like he does here deserves marshmallows in their hot chocolate; the spectacle is all the more amusing for the victim believing himself privy to the whole spectrum of ironic implication. Do you think he ever really sees himself? Lol. Me either.
Flicks like Inside Llewyn Davis will always present critical challenges. Working obscure subject matter into wilful gold can be its own reward and just as gratifying to a thoughtful audience. It can seem petty to castigate a mature modus for being, well, mature, but it's important to question when and if peak Cohen has tipped over into just preaching to a bunch of breathless converts. Superfans will probably lap up every umber moment with some sort of artisanal spoon, and now that I've kicked it around in my head for 24 hours, I'm more convinced of ILD's subtle merits than when the credits were rolling. Not sure if I would have had the nerve to try and sell this story to anyone myself, but that's why I'm not a respected auteur. The fact that they sold it to me is a peculiar achievement. Inside Llewyn Davis is available on iTunes now, at least in NZ.
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