Visually, Inside Llewyn Davis, is in a constant shade of grey. A melancholic tone of overcast mimics Davis’ miserable state of being, his constant sorrow. As in most Coen films, the cinematography is beautiful and unconventional. You feel cold watching the film. Looking like the cover from Dylan’s Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan album, in the slush and rain, Davis’ poverty is evident. He’s so miserable it becomes a joke, a dark, Coen brothers type of humour that is executed so well with their witty brand of dialogue.
Simply put, Inside Llewyn Davis is as if O Brother Where Art Thou? and Walter Salle’s On The Road (2012) had a baby and named it Llewyn. The music is exquisite, and comes from the new generation of poets, beats, and dusty, dim New York cafes. Llewyn’s existential quest ends without any sort of revelation or epiphany, but just runs around in circles. He’s talented, but too stubborn for his own good. The most beautiful thing about this film is that it makes you think about the valuation of music, art in general, and most of all, how many modern-day Llewyn Davis’ are out on the streets, guitar in tow and trying to retain authenticity.