Inside Llewyn Davis 4K 2013

Lewin Davis, a folk musician who performs solo and also happens to be a composer, seems to be doing nothing but trying to break into the big leagues. But the road to stardom turns out to be a bit more thorny than he’d like; it’s not that his album isn’t selling well—it’s that nobody even knows it exists—he doesn’t own a home, his finances are in dire straits, and he mostly spends the night at friends’ houses, occasionally performing in bars for a modest fee. But all of that pales in comparison once you learn about his main problem—at times, he’s such a jerk that you won’t find his equal anywhere in the whole wide world.

The Coen brothers, despite their constant experimentation with plots, genres, casts, and tones, are instantly recognizable from the very first frames—suffice it to say that any other director would have instantly turned a similar plot into a heart-wrenching ode to an unrecognized genius. And what’s really funny is that someone actually managed to spot him here, despite the generally obvious fact that the main character isn’t at all suited to the material. If there’s any genius here, it’s only those two who were calling the shots on set. And Lewin is, in essence, a loser whose failures would have been entirely logical at any time—not because life is unfair, but because Bob Dylan is better. Were there not plenty of wandering musicians roaming America in the ’50s, playing folk music and dreaming of fame? And the story of this fictional singer, in fact, isn’t about talent buried in the ground, but about its flip side—when just a little more would have meant the scent of big money (a conversation with F. Murray Abraham toward the end puts everything into perspective on this topic).

And at first glance, it might seem that the brothers aren’t saying anything we don’t already know, but this is where classic Coen-style irony comes to the rescue—not mockery, but a look at dreary reality through the nervous smirk of a man backed into a corner by very specific circumstances. The real essence lies not in the dialogue—honed, as usual, to perfection—but in the situations, in the redemption that the writers are willing to grant their hero; his love of music gives him no more than his attachment to cinema—a frenzied spectator harboring his own audacious plans, which, of course, will never come to fruition. One could say that this leitmotif is what makes the film a brilliant tragicomedy—and how else could one tell the story of people who have slightly miscalibrated their own frame of reference? in fact, this idea runs like a refrain through the Coens’ entire body of work, whether it’s a story about a hapless Texas hunter or a writer who ends up in the wrong hotel.

The real standout, however, is the previously little-known Oscar Isaac, who grew out a beard and masterfully performed all the musical numbers—which make up the lion’s share of the action—and who means far more to the viewer’s experience than Timberlake, Mulligan, or even Goodman, who slept through half his role and spent the other half hobbling to the nearest restroom. After all, even though Lewin is essentially nothing more than a haughty, cynical bastard who sleeps with his friends’ girlfriends, in the most poignant moments you find yourself feeling, if not sympathy, then at least understanding toward him; and hardly even the worst piece of shit deserves to walk the vicious circle of his own making. To go through it once, only to get punched in the unshaven face by a stranger—honestly, it’s not worth going out onto the street when called by friends in business suits. They aren’t friends—you simply don’t have any.