After finding the greatest mass-culture success and reaction with their searing, post-modern Western No Country for Old Men, the Coen brothers seem to have been on a journey throughout their last four films. As always flouting the expectations of audiences and studios, they went at the pace and direction in which they felt most comfortable. This resulted in a high-energy, excitingly quirky and sometimes violent comedy; a most studious portrayal of a man in 1967 struggling with the greatest Jewish questions; and a straight-on genre piece made with the finest touch of cinematic craftsmanship available. Do any of these projects have a connection? At their basest, one could surmise they all are about the characters' intentions of finding home. This, of course, is a word used so often as to be overstated, yet the meaning has become so varied it can apply to almost anyone and anywhere. Now, the Coens go to a spiritual home of sorts for so many cultural figures in the early 1960s: Greenwich Village.
Intentionally set just before one young man from Minnesota came to New York and shook the whole scene out of its self-conscious doldrums, the story follows the titular character floating amongst acquaintances, sympathizers and fellow musicians as he attempts to put together his own career after a tragic loss. As has been noted, this is a great set-up for the cliché rags-to-riches story, yet the Coens are far too intelligent and savvy for that. They said they began writing the screenplay with the image of folk singer Dave Van Ronk being beaten outside the Gaslight Cafe after a concert, which is what happens to Llewyn Davis. He receives just about everything a down-on-his-luck artist could: physical and emotional beatings which leave him alienated from just about everyone. In most other stories of this kind, this would provide the artist with the perfect opportunity to dig deep within himself and find exactly what was missing previously from his output, resulting in the breakthrough success he was searching for all along. Yet, Llewyn's problems either go too deep or he is in the wrong business at the wrong time.
Like all their films, the Coens show a masterful ability to synthesize exquisite imagery, eccentrically memorable supporting roles and a bleakness that worms its way into your soul. Here, the bleakness comes out the complexity Llewyn Davis gives to the audience. Never ones to make a statement about how we should feel about their characters, Llewyn might be the Coens' fullest and most thriving creation on their resume. A bile-filled, slightly narcissistic, handsome rogue, Oscar Isaac plays him as almost upset by his own actions yet perhaps unable to stop himself from self-destructing. Trying to apologize to an ex-girlfriend, attempting to dine with intellectual supporters, even preparing to perform for a seemingly generous audience; all these instances are pure examples of Llewyn Davis' astonishing ability to screw himself over. He knows the consequences of his actions as soon as he says or does whatever it is, yet there is not necessarily a lack of sympathy for this man. He is an artist, struggling to find not only his voice but his purpose in finding his voice. Should this life-changing decision he has made be a defining time in his life, or is he still drifting, forever doomed to be unattached and undefined?
Other supporting roles are almost as superb as Isaac. Carey Mulligan and Justin Timberlake as a performing duo who reluctantly help Llewyn out in various ways; Ethan Phillips and Robin Bartlett as the academic couple who think they are helping Llewyn by treating him as fodder entertainment for their friends; and John Goodman as a corpulent, slightly sinister jazz musician who reminds one of Robert DeNiro in Angel Heart. His condescension and constant put-downs of both Llewyn and the folk scene express many peoples' feelings as well as perhaps Llewyn's self-hatred of what he has become.
Constantly on the outside looking in, folk music was at this time struggling to maintain its existence amidst the Red Scare but also the up-and-coming rock and roll scene burgeoning throughout the United States. Traditionally, Bob Dylan has been hailed as the savior of this genre, yet just like the concept of home this may be overstated. In the end, with a new figure emerging on the scene effectively rendering him obsolete, what may be most important for Llewyn is the future, rather than the present. His ex tells him he has no concept of the future and he counters by telling her she has no concept of the present. Perhaps they are both right about one another, but as it turns out, which side of this argument would it be worse for Llewyn to come out on? Presumably, the struggle maintains itself for as long as he tries to express it through music. For him, home may be just a five-letter word.
Intentionally set just before one young man from Minnesota came to New York and shook the whole scene out of its self-conscious doldrums, the story follows the titular character floating amongst acquaintances, sympathizers and fellow musicians as he attempts to put together his own career after a tragic loss. As has been noted, this is a great set-up for the cliché rags-to-riches story, yet the Coens are far too intelligent and savvy for that. They said they began writing the screenplay with the image of folk singer Dave Van Ronk being beaten outside the Gaslight Cafe after a concert, which is what happens to Llewyn Davis. He receives just about everything a down-on-his-luck artist could: physical and emotional beatings which leave him alienated from just about everyone. In most other stories of this kind, this would provide the artist with the perfect opportunity to dig deep within himself and find exactly what was missing previously from his output, resulting in the breakthrough success he was searching for all along. Yet, Llewyn's problems either go too deep or he is in the wrong business at the wrong time.
Like all their films, the Coens show a masterful ability to synthesize exquisite imagery, eccentrically memorable supporting roles and a bleakness that worms its way into your soul. Here, the bleakness comes out the complexity Llewyn Davis gives to the audience. Never ones to make a statement about how we should feel about their characters, Llewyn might be the Coens' fullest and most thriving creation on their resume. A bile-filled, slightly narcissistic, handsome rogue, Oscar Isaac plays him as almost upset by his own actions yet perhaps unable to stop himself from self-destructing. Trying to apologize to an ex-girlfriend, attempting to dine with intellectual supporters, even preparing to perform for a seemingly generous audience; all these instances are pure examples of Llewyn Davis' astonishing ability to screw himself over. He knows the consequences of his actions as soon as he says or does whatever it is, yet there is not necessarily a lack of sympathy for this man. He is an artist, struggling to find not only his voice but his purpose in finding his voice. Should this life-changing decision he has made be a defining time in his life, or is he still drifting, forever doomed to be unattached and undefined?
Other supporting roles are almost as superb as Isaac. Carey Mulligan and Justin Timberlake as a performing duo who reluctantly help Llewyn out in various ways; Ethan Phillips and Robin Bartlett as the academic couple who think they are helping Llewyn by treating him as fodder entertainment for their friends; and John Goodman as a corpulent, slightly sinister jazz musician who reminds one of Robert DeNiro in Angel Heart. His condescension and constant put-downs of both Llewyn and the folk scene express many peoples' feelings as well as perhaps Llewyn's self-hatred of what he has become.
Constantly on the outside looking in, folk music was at this time struggling to maintain its existence amidst the Red Scare but also the up-and-coming rock and roll scene burgeoning throughout the United States. Traditionally, Bob Dylan has been hailed as the savior of this genre, yet just like the concept of home this may be overstated. In the end, with a new figure emerging on the scene effectively rendering him obsolete, what may be most important for Llewyn is the future, rather than the present. His ex tells him he has no concept of the future and he counters by telling her she has no concept of the present. Perhaps they are both right about one another, but as it turns out, which side of this argument would it be worse for Llewyn to come out on? Presumably, the struggle maintains itself for as long as he tries to express it through music. For him, home may be just a five-letter word.