Starring Oscar Isaac, Carey Mulligan, Justin Timberlake, John Goodman, Adam Driver, Stark Sands and F. Murray Abraham. Written and directed by Joel and Ethan Coen. Opens Dec. 20 at Toronto theatres. 105 minutes. 14A
The hurricane called Bob Dylan is approaching, in the New York City winter of 1961, but Llewyn Davis (Oscar Isaac) doesn’t know which way the wind is blowing.
Like his fellow troubadours in the smoky cafés of Greenwich Village, Llewyn sings and strums acoustic blues, seafaring laments and story ballads that yearn for bygone times. Dylan’s modern plaint is about to be heard and felt, and America has a bold new president in John F. Kennedy, but Llewyn is oblivious to change.
He can’t stop what’s coming, as it surely does via the circular narrative of Inside Llewyn Davis, the newest and arguably greatest film by Joel and Ethan Coen, their uncanny evocation of the folk revival of the early 1960s.
The whims of fate and vagaries of artistic success have never been so clearly defined, or so musically. The latter is thanks to an authentic folk soundtrack produced by T Bone Burnett[1] , who did the same for O Brother, Where Art Thou?, the Coens’ earlier homage to traditional American music.
The film’s images are equally striking, with the desaturated colours of cinematographer Bruno Delbonnel’s frame turning dull skies, grey streets and dark clubs into visual gold.
They all find their sweet spot in the travails of Llewyn, yesterday’s man with no thought for tomorrow. He hasn’t even dressed for the winter, with just a thin coat, a worn scarf and summer trousers and loafers protecting him from the cold.
All he cares about is grabbing a few ears for his music, a few dollars for his pocket and a couch for the night. He also needs someone to take a pesky marmalade tabby off his hands, an escapee from the apartment of married older friends the Gorfeins (Ethan Phillips and Robin Bartlett), his scholarly patrons and occasional couch hosts.
The film opens at the Gaslight Café, modelled after the real but long-gone Gerde’s Folk City[2] . Llewyn, bearded and intense, performs a complete rendition of “Hang Me, Oh Hang Me,” a traditional tune often associated with the late Dave Van Ronk, a Dylan contemporary whose memoirs (The Mayor of MacDougal Street) inform the screenplay by the Coens, who both write and direct.
Llewyn is disdainful of other singers (they lack “higher purpose”), and there’s more than a note of condescension in his voice as he instructs his enraptured audience about the music: “If it was never new, and it never gets old, then it’s a folk song.”
Llewyn is about to get his own schooling, in the alley behind the club. The reason isn’t immediately apparent, but we might guess. Llewyn may seem like the real deal onstage (actor/musician Isaac does his own singing and playing) but his personal life is a shambles of bad debts, broken promises and betrayed friends. Most of his problems are due to his own selfishness and carelessness.
Here the film’s second theme begins to emerge: a serial freeloader and breaker of hearts (Carey Mulligan’s furious Jean among them), Llewyn is an insincere and dishonest man trying to be a sincere and authentic musician. The contradictions are tearing him apart.
And like characters we’ve seen in other films by the Coens, notably the protagonists of Barton Fink and A Serious Man, he’s only vaguely aware of the approaching thunder, wrought by Hurricane Bob.
Dylan looms, but he’s a phantom in the film. He’s heard on one song (“Farewell”) and one late scene might have you rubbing your eyes — although Llewyn, as usual, can’t grasp what’s happening. Just as he doesn’t realize that the delightful novelty tune “Please Mr. Kennedy,” which he records for quick cash with fellow folkies played by Justin Timberlake and Adam Driver, is more than just a throwaway.
The film is driven not by plot but by characters strong and true, most of whom are based on real personalities of the folk era. Isaac and Mulligan, who previously teamed for Nicolas Winding Refn’s Drive, hit all the right discordant notes in their love/hate connections. Mulligan hasn’t been this strong since An Education, but Isaac is the real casting coup, able to muster fragility and contempt in a single sleepy-eyed gaze.
Other fine supporting turns come from John Goodman as a disdainful jazzman and reluctant fellow traveller, F. Murray Abraham as a Chicago nightclub owner who offers both hope and despair, and actor/singer Stark Sands as a choirboy soldier, whose take on Tom Paxton’s “The Last Thing on My Mind” might just bring a tear to your eye.
They’ve all got major competition from that marmalade tabby, a restless feline whose name, late revealed, will bring a smile. Clawing every scene it’s in, the cat’s utter indifference to the whirlwind around it hilariously plays as silent commentary on the fleeting nature of fame and the folly of humans who chase it.
But no one should be indifferent to Inside Llewyn Davis, a contemporary masterpiece by the Coens about a time long ago and far away, when music seemed like the answer to everything.
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