Inside Llewyn Davis ★★★★½

Hang me, oh hang me

I'll be dead and gone

Hang me, oh hang me

I'll be dead and gone

Wouldn't mind the hanging

But the layin' in a grave so long, poor boy

I been all around this world

It felt so freezing cold and anyone without adequate shelter or warmth would possibly not make it through. A folk singer with his old Gibson guitar gently weeping a few verses of “Hang me, Oh Hang Me”He gazes at the lifeless future ahead ... Days after days, moving from one place to another, Llewyn Davis is barely conscious. The Coen Brothers's elliptical narration let you slip inside Llewyn’s shoes as he wearily walks the streets, encountering new people and friends, wondering if he could crash on somebody’s sofa. “You gotta do what you gotta do”, Llewyn picks up the guitar, stretches out his frozen limbs and sings on. Talk about an artist’s struggles: loss of a friend; unsold records are excessively stacked; secret fling gone wrong and then comes a cat.

If it was never new, and it never gets old, then it's a folk song.

This is where music and life go hand in hand. Would he be able to breathe if music was taken out of his dangling existence? The bleakness of hardships feels blisteringly real, somberly looping the cycle of misery. Llewyn is not perfect; he is an asshole to put it in Jean’s (Carey Mulligan) words. Through her brief appearance, his character's become more evident - an irresponsible person who is not really matured enough to understand his own actions. He's made bad decisions, clumsily miscommunicated and severely detached - a singer who is incapable of performing solo acts, both professionally and personally - Drearily drifting ... and... drifting

Inside Llewyn Davis can be summed up in a musician’s arduous journey during winter time with a cat and a guitar, trying to make a living as his cold feet are sluggishly dragged across snowy paths. Oscar Issac's melodically affectionate tone helps coaxing all dirgelike sorrows tiptoeing near. Head's throbbed and heart's tugged by the mellifluous rhythm, while folk’s tales are being told in doting voices. “Five Hundred Miles” away, the road keeps on winding and the way home is too foggy to see but Llewyn still trudges on, even after receiving multiple punches and blows. Please sing it again, Llewyn...because your music is starkly beautiful, morbidly funny in its never-ending tribulations, and at times, acutely depressing like a haze of cigarette smoke. 

Au revoir

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