Does he have a higher function?

The latest Coen Brothers' offering 'Inside Llewyn Davis' is a welcome return to their deadpan comedy mode. It's less uncompromising than Fargo, but sharper and more human than 'Burn After Reading' or 'The Hudsucker Proxy' (arguably the Coen's weakest works to date).

It's a slyly ahistorical account of the Greenwich Village folk music scene that briefly flared in the early sixties, before disappearing under the weight of its own self-appointed profundity. It features many of the Coen's hallmarks: pitch-perfect music, cracking dialogue and, obviously, a scene-stealing John Goodman cameo.

Loss, and its consequences, is at the heart of the story. The eponymous, cat-wielding anti-hero of the title is, at first, a character that is very hard to like. Davis (Oscar Issac) has an uncanny knack of alienating seemingly everyone around him (with the exception of his companion for much of the film, Ulysses the cat). There are clever references to many of the Coen's previous films here, both visual (the snowy scenes of Miller's Crossing) and thematic (the struggling musicians of O' Brother, Where Art Though?). 

Indeed, references to O Brother pepper the entire film. Davis's struggles echo the driving theme of O' Brother, the fantastical journey of Homer's Odyssey. Indeed, the 'journey within a journey' provides the highlight of the film. The reluctant road trip to Chicago in the second half of the film finally gives us an inkling of what exactly is 'inside' Davis.

But the story takes a much broader comedic swipe than simply referencing the film-makers' previous efforts. Particularly enjoyable is Justin Timberlake playing a pretentious (but commercially savvy) folk singer version of his pop-star self. There is also the enlisted-soldier-by-day, folk-singer-by-night character who specialises in a crowd pleasing, but ultimately bland, version of folk (prompting Davis to ask, somewhat rhetorically, if the anodyne performer has 'a higher function?').

The film's greatest achievement is that, despite the main character's obvious failings as a human being, by journey's end you undoubtedly feel for Davis. His last gasp attempt at musical success in Chicago is by turns touching and devastating. When he exasperatingly exclaims to his pregnant ex-girlfriend Jean (Carey Mulligan) 'I'm done' you feel a new reality crashing down around him; all hope of a musical career has been permanently extinguished.

For most artists, simply being ambitious and talented is no guarantee of success. Llewyn Davis hammers this home with a touching humanity rarely seen on film.

I Put a Spell on You

Welcome back, it's been a while. The last few months have seen me temporarily locate to the other side of the world in Perth. Most weekends I've been desperate for a good rummage through an op shop, something that used to be part of my weekly (almost daily) ritual in London.

The grazing isn't so rich in the West, perhaps because everyone seems to throw away their hard rubbish here rather than donating it. I've never seen curbside collection like it. It seems as though most people regularly replace the entire contents of their homes every few weeks. Either that or they are auditioning for a role in a depression-era America drama, hitching their possessions to a back of a wagon and heading for California.

Although I've struggled to find many decent op shops in Perth (maybe a good thing) I have found that my local Vinnies has a pretty good selection of CDs. I suspect that most are cast-offs from the multitude of backpackers that pass through Northbridge. What seemed like an essential part of that road trip to the Kimberleys is now more like unwanted excess baggage for the long hop home.

This weekend I managed to pick up a few gems, each just a couple of bucks:

Trompe le Monde - The Pixies
Mama Africa - Miriam Makeba
Best of Marvin Gaye
Rude Boy Ska - Desmond Dekker

But my favourite find this week is Voodoo Jive by Screamin' Jay Hawkins. I have to admit, I had no idea he penned the classic I Put a Spell on You. But even better is discovering how genuinely weird his music was. The last track is called Constipation Blues - as you can gather from the title, not one for the faint of heart. In the spoken introduction to the song Hawkins explains that this is the first song that deals with the 'real pain' of existence. And so it is.

The Cars That Ate Paris (and Sydney, London, Tokyo...)

A novel approach to traffic safety: a rudimentary (and pre-emptive) airbag?

Sometimes it can feel like cars are taking over the world. For those of us that choose not to drive a car it can sometimes make for uncomfortable viewing. Yesterday's announcement of a three-pence reduction in fuel duty has been greeted in some quarters like the second coming. No surprise given that cars dominate all aspects of modern life, from the very look and feel of our cities to the way we define our selves as modern, consumerist societies.

The overriding message seems clear enough - driving a car is a right, not a luxury. We are constantly enticed to spend our hard-earned fortunes on these disposable gadgets, sold to us like bloated iPhones on wheels. But all that chrome and rubber comes at a great cost - even discounting the enormous resources it takes to manufacture these gleaming machines, there is still the small matter of the miles of tarmac (and steel and concrete) on which they ride, not to mention the ever diminishing fossil fuels on which they survive.

Cars can still make attractive additions to our environment - it's just better when they are stationary

But my dislike of cars is founded on something much simpler. On a recent trip to Paris I was struck by how much they detract from a pedestrian's enjoyment of the city. Crossing even the most minor of roads in Paris on foot (let alone the grand boulevards) is like negotiating the trenches of the Western front. In every way the city has lowered itself to accommodate the car - surely it should be the contrary?

The story is one that has been repeated across the world (with the notable exception of cities like Amsterdam) - the very fabric of the city at the 'human scale' has been sacrificed to the car. Many of us now live on urban islands surrounded by endless rivers of traffic. Call me a Luddite, but doesn't that seem like a high price to pay?

Down & Out

When the weekend offered up the rare prospect of sunshine I jumped straight on a train to Eastbourne to take in what is, arguably, one of the most spectacular parts of southern England: the rolling South Downs region of Sussex.

The short, sharp walk from Eastbourne takes you to the top of Beachy Head, a location that ranks alongside the Golden Gate Bridge and Aokigahara Woods as one of the world's "top" beauty spots. Red-shirted chaplains patrol the top of the cliffs in the hope of talking down potential jumpers. You can't help but feel moved by the makeshift memorials that dot the cliff edge, the stark whiteness of the chalk somehow seems appropriate.

Cautiously peering over the edge of the cliff brings a fleeting thrill of danger, but I'm happier maintaining a healthy distance from the void. In fact, I'm much happier at sea level generally - heights aren't really my thing. But there is, undeniably, something inspirational about peering out across the English Channel, looking down on the endless waves crashing onto the shingle beach far below; a chance to catch a glimmer of wilderness on the crowded south coast.

The Negotiation Limerick File

Sad news today with the passing of the Beastie Boys' Adam Yauch (aka MCA). The Beasties were one of the few international acts that made the trek down to Tasmania back when I was a student in the late 90s.

Here is one of their finest moments - Sabotage, the film clip that inspired many a fancy dress party.

Voters' Rights

There are many things I love about the UK - politicians are not one of them. All of which makes it very difficult when it comes time to exercise your democratic right to vote. Today presented such an opportunity as the folks of London got to vote for the next mayor.

But given the fact that this effectively means making a choice between Ken "Gollum" Livingston or Boris "Wurzel Gummidge" Johnson, it feels less like a democratic right than a trip to the dentist. Which is to say that both candidates leave me pretty cold.

However, when it came down to it I felt that not voting would take away my right to complain for the next five years. In the end I did cast a vote, though not for either of the leading candidates.

So now it's time to sit back and enjoy the outcome of the electoral race (to the bottom).

Not A Hollywood Ending

Gravesend isn't the kind of place you would typically associate with Hollywood, not helped by the fact that the town's name sounds like a destination that you really don't want to get to in a hurry. But dig a little deeper and you discover something very interesting lurking in Gravesend's history.


In the graveyard of St George's church Gravesend is a statue memorialising one of America's great historical figures - Pocahontas. Her true life story was more tragic than the cartoon version would suggest.


The Disney version ends with Pocahontas stopping the execution of the British settler John Smith in 17th century America. Less well known is that Pocahontas converted to Christianity and subsequently married John Rolfe, founder of Virginia's first tobacco plantation, in 1614. Pocahontas enjoyed great celebrity during a visit to England in 1616, culminating in a reception at the Court of King James.

During the return voyage to Virginia in 1617 Pocahontas was taken ill and died, far from home, while her ship was anchored off Gravesend. Her final resting place is unknown but is thought to be somewhere in the grounds of St George's.


Which makes her full life story much more interesting than Disney's take if, admittedly, a little less family friendly.