Review: Inside Llewin Davis

The Coen brothers have an odd way of looking at the world. Not a Hunter S. Thompson acid trip way, just slightly off-beat, as if they wear wry-tinted spectacles. Weaving sardonic humour and gross brutality, tragedy and comedy are rarely far apart – a well-used concept in storytelling. They seem fascinated by those on the losing side, from The Dude to Llewellyn Moss to Larry Gopnik, and this must have been the case with Llewin Davis.

Based on one Dave Van Ronk, Llewin is a musician attempting to forge a career in the burgeoning folk scene of early 1960s Greenwich Village. He is less hero than protagonist, losing friends’ cats, ruining dinner parties, heckling performers and creating unwanted pregnancies. Self-indulgently self-destructive, Llewin wallows in masochistic, passive-aggressive failure. We do not know why – maybe his musical partner’s suicide is making solo work unpalatable. In any case Llewin is complex like any human, a positive three-dimensionality for a biopic to have. He might be a musical genius, but he might be just alright.

Inside Llewin Davis runs so smoothly, like a creamy cinematic oyster, that it is a delightful watch. The Coen brothers have buttered the camera and sent the viewer sliding through, to the extent that the film might feel lightweight to some. There is no linear plot, with each new development fading away. Similarly, the supporting cast enter and exit, forgotten as quickly as they appear. This all reflects Llewin’s life: he cannot grasp career success, but drifts from job to job and couch to couch. But maybe it was too elusive for its own good. It is certainly a film that would do with multiple viewings – the significance of the recurring feline escapades, for example, or what it all really means. The music is mostly performed live, a wise move which provides a bracingly sincere and talented soundtrack in today’s Auto-Tuned pop world.

Oscar Isaac deserves applause for his portrayal, for the production is entirely centred on him. For all of the Coens' abilities, it was up to Isaac to deliver a presence both passively restrained and charismatically dominant. Despite their diminished screen time, there are some other notable performances. Carey Mulligan is a raging wife of one of Llewin’s friends, reluctantly living the Village beatnik life. John Goodman is a heroin-addicted, cane-wielding fat man – Colonel Sanders meets Lord Byron. Pop pretty boy Justin Timberlake sings nicely in a sweater. Various oddballs, from laconic beat poets to guitar strumming yokel GIs, are chanced upon by Llewin.

Those who knew Van Ronk have complained that he was far nicer than Llewin, and that Greenwich Village loses some of its ‘vibrancy’ on-screen. But is the point of the film to tell this man’s story and introduce us to the ’60s folk scene, or is it about themes that the setting encapsulates? Joel and Ethan are very obviously demonstrating Van Ronk’s / Llewin’s influence on the most musical decade of the century, with a young Dylan and the Clancy Brothers popping up. Yet more deeply, Inside Llewin Davis is a study of failed artists, about trying to live one's dream. When do you give up? It is a beguiling, intriguing film, and one which asks more questions than it answers.