Inside Llewyn Davis

The Coen brothers’ general shtick is of an ordinary guy swept up by the winds of fate and deposited reeling from the torment at the end of the movie.
This could be a hippy shmuck (The Big Lebowski), a professor shmuck (A Serious Man) or a screenwriter schmuck (Barton Fink).
In this case it’s Llewyn Davis, a folk singer shmuck in 1961 New York, half-heartedly trying to make it big.
His last partner committed suicide, while Davis also passes up the royalties from a catchy novelty song to quickly cash a one-off cheque.
Davis carries his sadsack personality round with him, sleeping on couches, screwing up career opportunities and dismissing the people who care about him. The lead character, played by Oscar Isaac is terrific in the role, someone defiant in his own inadequacy. He is a hard guy to get along with. But you can still root for him and his loserish charm. Davis also has some talent as seen in some cracking musical performances, but he’s the guy at the end of an era, too short-sighted to see the bigger picture.
He must have had some cojones to have a brief fling with his friend Jean, played by Carey Mulligan. Who also happens to be the better half of his friend Jim, played by Justin Timberlake.

Davis is not unloved or totally unlikeable. Mulligan gets better with every film she’s in, and her character Jean notably curves a smile when Davis retrieves a friend’s cat that he carelessly let escape into a wintry New York. And his nephew sweetly composes a message to him on an Etch-A-Sketch.
And yet like its leading character and 2009’s A Serious Man, this film is just too hard to get along with. The journey is bafflingly cyclical. The dead ends along the way aren’t the narrative wrinkle. This is a film about both pursuing the talent you have, despite your own character faults, but also knowing when to give up. But the film seems too knowing and wry, like you’ve missed the punchline of a joke.
The Coens’ movies are willfully left of centre, the filmmakers almost tweaking the nose of the audience as it leads them through the story.
But even if it’s a narrative shaggy-dog story like Lebowski, or a sparse, tense drama, like No Country for Old Men, there is normally a terrific pace and verve to their storytelling. This one seems to revel in false starts, dangling sentences, and frustrated emotions.
Inside Llewyn Davis is certainly another intriguing ride, and you’re happy to submerge yourself in the smudgy grey apartments, dingy nightclubs, and quirky folk tunes of the era.
But though as engaging, and darkly funny as all of their work (a highlight is a dinner party meltdown when Davis is gently asked to perform a song) the film never quite delivers its killer chorus. Mostly ignored by Oscar voters, ultimately it’s as cold as the harsh winter wind that buffets this deluded shmuck.

4*

CINEMA