Inside Llewyn Davis (2013) is one of the few movies that I’ve finished and then immediately started watching again. Here, the Coen Brothers have crafted a intimate film about one man’s inability to connect to those around him and his consequent sysiphian struggle to make any headway in his life (or is it the other way around?).
The film begins at The Gaslight Café in 1961, and we’re treated to a performance: folk singer Llewyn Davis (Oscar Isaac) is singing “Hang Me, Oh Hang Me.” Once the performance is over, the manager tells him he has a friend outside waiting for him. A friend? We learn later on that, really, Llewyn doesn’t have any friends, and certainly none that would just be waiting outside. Stepping outside, we see a man in silhouette. Suddenly the realistic smoky light of the performance is replaced by something a bit more stylistic and certainly more threatening. The man gives Llewyn a bit of a beating and walks away.
In the next scene, Llewyn wakes up at the Gorfein’s (Ethan Phillips and Robin Bartlett), an older, academic couple who has befriended Llewyn, probably because of his novelty as a folk singer. Llewyn resents this, though it’s hard to see how he could support himself without their brand of commission (and they are not the only ones of their type who latch on to Llewyn and whom he begrudgingly “performs” for). Llewyn wanders around the Gorfein’s apartment in the morning after they’ve left; he is obviously alien but enjoying some peace in the moment. When he finally does leave, the Gorfein’s cat slips out the door with him, the door is locked, and now Llewyn is stuck with a cat who will, we see, have his own incredible journey, one perhaps more successful than Llewyn’s.
I could go through this movie scene by scene, character-by-character — it’d be worth it to me to ruminate that way, and I’d still only scratch the surface — but here I want to reign myself in a bit and focus on the mythic aspects of the film, the aspects that link this film more with Barton Fink and Oh Brother, Where Art Thou?
In many ways, the film is set up as a kind of journey of the soul with parallels in Llewyn’s literal journey around points in Manhattan, to Chicago, and then back to Greenwich Village for the final scene. It’s an odyssey, and as such it’s somewhat episodic as various characters enter and exit Llewyn’s life.
Principally, we meet Jean (Carey Mulligan) and her husband Jim (Justin Timberlake). They are also folk singers, and maybe Llewyn sees them as sell-outs. They have a home he often sleeps in, after all, perhaps they’ve given up the genuine struggle of the soul, necessary for artists in Llewyn’s mind, in order to get some material comfort.
Just after he leaves the Gorfein’s, Llewyn takes the cat to Jean and Jim’s home, just as a safe place. When he goes back to retrieve the cat, Jean is furious. Why’s there a cat here? And, no, Llewyn you cannot sleep here tonight. And, also, I’m pregnant. Jean does not know if Jim or Llewyn is the father. If it’s Jim’s, she wants it. If it’s Llewyn’s, she wants to abort it. Since there is no way of knowing, she feels there is no other alternative but to abort the pregnancy.
One criticism I’ve heard of the film is that Jean is shrill. There’s no doubt that Jean is absolutely furious with Llewyn. She hates him. But, to me, it appears that it’s a hatred born of love and passion. Jim is a wonderful man, truly generous and kind in every scene we see him in. But perhaps Jean feels more passionately toward Llewyn, definitely in hatred, but also perhaps in love. Her vitriol is directed at Llewyn, but I think it’s all the more intense because she loves him.
Nevertheless, that train has left the station, and this is laid out nicely in another of the film’s great music scenes, where Jean and Jim sing “Five Hundred Miles”:
If you missed the train I’m on
You will know that I am gone
You can hear the whistle blow a hundred miles…
Not a shirt on my back
Not a penny to my name
Lord, I can’t go back home this ole way.
The number ties in nicely with Llewyn’s own unmoored journey through life, his failed relationships (with Jean and others), and also with the links to the Odyssey.
Llewyn feels his best shot at getting out of his rut is to travel to Chicago and, hopefully, get a gig with producer Bud Grossman (F. Murray Abraham). On the way, he splits gas money with Roland Turner (in another fine performance from John Goodman), a jazz musician with his own problems, but at least he seems to have a successful career. Up to this point in the film we’ve heard mentions of Llewyn’s old music partner, Mike Timlin, and we know Mike is dead. Llewyn is still in shock, though he’s been trying to move on to the solo scene. Here we get a bit more of the story, and a glimpse at the other-worldly power of Roland Turner. Llewyn tells Roland that Mike jumped off the George Washington Bridge, and Roland simply says:
George Washington Bridge? You throw yourself off the Brooklyn Bridge, traditionally. George Washington Bridge? Who does that?
The whole trip to Chicago is strange and otherworldly, kind of like Llewyns passage into the underworld. After an argument, Roland Turner tells Llewyn that he doesn’t need to physically best Llewyn; he has cursed Llewyn. It might not be for years, but some day Llewyn is going to wake up and wonder why his life is so terrible. It’s kind of like Goodman is reprising his role as (maybe) the Devil from Barton Fink, capable of supernatural powers. Of course, it’s not necessary to go that far: Roland can see that Llewyn already thinks his life is terrible, and he’s got no qualms pointing it out.
The meeting with Bud Grossman goes poorly, and Llewyn continues to wander in his own personal hell.
Which brings me to the point I want to focus on, and this requires me to discuss the ending of the film. So, if you’re not already wary of spoilers, let me warn you.
When the meeting in Chicago goes poorly, it’s sort of the end of the line. I love how Richard Brody put it here: “Davis is, in effect, condemned to return to his life, to New York, to face the same travails all over again.” But first, perhaps we see a glimmer of hope. He makes up with the Gorfein’s (I didn’t describe the awful fight they had), and goes back to the Gaslight to perform a truly heartfelt rendition of “Fare Thee Well.”
He steps off the stage, the manager tells him his friend is waiting outside, and there’s the man in the hat waiting to beat Llewyn — again? And, thus, the end is the beginning, on and on, maybe for years. Some great detective work has led some to suspect the year is now 1963 (that’s the year The Incredible Journey came out, and its poster is seen in the film; that’s also the year Bob Dylan recorded his own song “Farewell,” which he’s singing at the Gaslight as Llewyn steps out to see that friend). There are other clues that this end is slightly different from the beginning, and all of it leads to a wonderful effect.
Sure, this could be Llewyn’s curse, brought on by Roland Turner (and maybe plenty of others), condemning Llewyn to life, wandering the streets of New York, an unknown, with a cat who does make it home. Llewyn’s own lines suggest this: “If it was never new, and it never gets old, then it’s a folk song.”
He also says, “I’m tired. I thought I just needed a night’s sleep, but it’s more than that.”
And maybe Bud Grossman’s advice is Llewyn’s only escape. When Grossman suggests Llewyn join a group of musicians rather than go solo, Llewyn says no, he already had a partner. Grossman says, “My suggestion: get back together.” Llewyn’s response: “That’s good advice.”
Perhaps Llewyn is already dead. When he wakes up at the Gorfein’s home, Mozart’s Requiem is playing in the background. And then there are the great lines from the first song we heard, “Hang Me, Oh, Hang Me”:
Hang me, oh, hang me, I’ll be dead and gone.
Hang me, oh, hang me, I’ll be dead and gone.
I wouldn’t mind the hanging, but the laying in the grave so long
Poor boy, I’ve been all around this world.
Is this what it’s like to lie in the grave so long? At any rate, doomed to pass this blank stage of his life again and again, Llewyn is no longer Odysseus but Sisyphus, repeating the struggle forever. Llewyn’s last words, as he watches the man in the hat drive off, are “au revoir.”
But, of course, again we don’t need to take this all that far and assume the tale of Llewyn Davis is some kind of actual curse. It’s the feeling. The Coens are not, I don’t think, making this man’s tale a myth; rather, they are utilizing myth to emphasize the very real struggle of Llewyn Davis, and others like him, who, despite his flaws and his general misanthropy, doesn’t seem to deserve the seemingly never-ending struggle that comes when one cannot place oneself in this world.
It’s a dark film, textured, layers, all those great words that you use when you could watch the same film over and over again and keep seeing new things.
Great review, Trevor – reading this just makes me want to see the film all over again!
What a wonderful dissection Trevor. You have moved through the “layers” and made the links in a way I haven’t seen in any other review of the film.
Like Jacqui am inspired to rewatch it…
Great stuff. I’m a huge fan of about half of the Coens’ stuff, and this seems to belong to that half. Can’t wait to see it, particularly after reading this.
Quick question, Trevor: why do you think the Coen Brothers split audiences seemingly right down the middle? They really do seem to rub a lot of people up the wrong way. Over-elaborate, snappily clever dialogue? (Wilder never got any flak for that.) The first Coen film I saw was Barton Fink, and it made whatever else was out around that time (notable exception: Goodfellas) look impoverished and straitjacketed. It was funny and menacing, and this looks along those lines.
That’s a good question, Lee, and one I probably can’t answer without sounding a bit pompous (i.e., they must not get it!!), but I’ll try.
It seems that most people I talk to who don’t like the Coen brothers’ work don’t like it because of its mixture of comedy and doom, and the perhaps related view that they are making fun of their characters. I don’t agree that they are making fun of their characters; on the contrary, I think they are usually warm toward them, counting their foibles as wondrous aspects of humanity. Nevertheless, combine the negative view with the fact that they are often so abrupt in their humor or their violence, and it can come across as distasteful. Again, I don’t agree.
Any thoughts?
I agree with your comments.
I think there’s a real sense, amongst those viewers that don’t take to their stuff, that “you can’t do this” or “you can’t do that”, and I think the Coens are happy to play around with such expectations. Where do such suppositions derive? But they’re there. There’s this idea that black comedy can only be delivered in a certain way, and the less laughs the better, the more heavily freighted towards seriousness the better, as though subversion is best administered formulaically. I don’t buy it, and if they’re pressing such buttons, all the better. I can’t understand why films can’t be taken on their own terms each time: there’s a definite sense with the Coens that what they’re doing is too much for some, too ripe, too fast and loose. It’s an interesting provocation.
(I think the Coens’ blueprint is Dr Strangelove. I may be wrong but I think that typifies what we’re talking about. The world is not to be taken seriously. It’s madness. But yet: the stuff of individual lives is very serious. I think they’ve taken Kubrickian caricatures, ripe Everymen, and put them amidst quotidian life to see how they fare. And there’s laughter in their futility, but empathetic laughter. They’re not mocking Faulkner in Barton Fink; or William H Macy’s character in Fargo; or Billy Bob Thornton’s barber in The Man Who Wasn’t There. I think there’s a feeling they are: I think that’s just a wonky appreciation of black comedy.)
Just dropping by again to say I agree with your and Lee’s observations and theories on reactions to the Coens’. Funnily enough, when I first saw Inside Llewyn (at last year’s London Film Fest) the couple on the other side of me were a bit bemused by it. I’m not sure what they were expecting, but they didn’t warm to the film at all, whereas we loved it!
One of the things I most admire about the Coens’ work — and you’ve captured it in your review and comments – is just how nuanced it is. It’s a funny film in parts, but other sections are very dark and melancholy. Oscar Isaac’s performance is just so damn good – perfectly pitched, capturing those shades and nuances in tone.
Inside Llewyn is right up there with my favourite Coens’ films. I can’t wait to see it again.
I avoided this film because I found Fargo strangely cold-hearted. But this one sounds different.
sshaver, you may not like this one either. I know people who find it cold as well. I, on the other hand, did not, nor do I think Fargo is cold-hearted. On the contrary, I feel a lot of warmth there.
sshaver: please elaborate, if you will, on your Fargo thoughts. I do find different takes on certain films fascinating at times: I can’t get into the head of someone who would find Fargo ‘cold-hearted’, but I’m really interested in what’s happening there in your case to effect that response. I find it quite the opposite. I mean, wood-chipper improvisations aside…
Love this analysis Trevor … I need to see it again properly as I saw it on one of those little plane screens en route between Aus and the US. Not the best place for dark (literally and metaphorically) movies like this. I enjoyed the discussion between you and Lee and agree with it. I generally love their work too. I think Lee’s comment that “The world is not to be taken seriously. It’s madness. But yet: the stuff of individual lives is very serious” is spot on – in both reality and the Coens movies which is what makes their movies so engrossing to those of us who like them. Fargo is still one of my standouts.