# nothing much inside llewyn davis rather than wistful or wry perhaps it's merely 'beatless' consider inside llewyn davis by the cohen brothers® as one small sigh for humanity proving the accuracy of the hitchhiker deadpan designation "mostly harmless" dimly unaware llewyn has all the rich inner life of the stuffed sofas ey surfs - belonging to other equally middling characters ir's central 'problem' is that ey has zero bona fide worries - only a random series of mediocre opportunities to shine dully as a languid and impassive human (state of) being neither truly kind or just an outright jerk even ir habitual attempts to cultivate a 'trademark inner angst' seem just another half-assed put-on for the sake of (thin scraggy) appearances rootless but largely unconcerned without a home or any interestingly-describable future all llewyn has is the music - and even that's just another crappy gig for ir where ey croons about the uselessly romantic and pathetically mythic it's difficult to really like or truly hate this movie - like llewyn davis one can't quite muster the minimum necessary energy required to express either listless pleasure or mute lightly sullen disappointment if 'the only thing worse than aiming for the middle is making it' then inside llewyn davis is the lightly cat-scratched yardstick of it's nondescript generation 'neither new nor old' - just flat much like an old dried-up onion there's sometimes a faint odorous hollowness at the core of cohen brothers movies (such as no country for old men); the number of non pinky white-skinned people and actors in ir movies is also worth noting for ir absence slightly too long conceptually shallow and generally muddy looking inside llewyn davis is unprofoundly unprofound - of little true account consequence or substantial meaning; as deficient and lacking in nutritive value as a slushy grey lump of new york snow passed by in frozen streets by dull strangers on ir imprecise and unremarkable ways to anywhere in non-particular (eg. chicago) one's reminded of terry gilliam's embarrassing johnny depp-tinted flick "fear and loathing in las vegas" - another tepid example of where the radical free spirit of the 60s era is kept safely neutered in a plain cardboard narrative box; an offensively non-offensive accidental self-parody without attitude or teeth - a 60's free 60's for the hip lukewarm and decaffeinated when llewyn davis died quietly and alone without complaint in a plain anonymous downtown apartment with only ever moderate heating capabilities few (including llewyn) noticed much of a difference the next time you're suffering from 'lite' existential tedium warble "stuck inside llewyn davis with the cohen blues againnn" out loud from the nearest fire escape; watch the gently amused reaction of your neighbour's hyper intelligent cat - and know you're an idiot // image here: llewyn's cat inside llewyn davis: the vague threat of an ok time in the company of (potential) artists - gently offset by a wearisome and mild monotonous reality of insubstantial forms arbitrary gestures and fleeting sense impressions - where nothing much can ever happen.. but even then so what? what comes next - more of the same? your initial primal reaction to this emaciated and meagre cohen brothers movie was the most correct. as wikipedia states - "llewyn mistakes ir father's smile for enjoyment of ir performance but then realizes it was a bowel movement" // republic of bob