It is very depressing "Inside Llewyn Davis"

Inside Llewyn Davis is probably the most depressing movie I've ever seen.

I don't usually go for depressing movies. I saw Schindler's List, but that's at least got Schindler trying to save people. Life is Beautiful was light at times, but god, the ending. As endings go, Ethan Frome has it beat. And lets not even talk about addiction movies. The one scene of Requiem for a Dream I've seen (if you're wondering, its the one with Jennifer Connelly and another woman entertaining a circle of yelling men) was dark enough I didn't want to go back and watch the rest.

Inside Llewyn Davis isn't depressing like those movies. There's no big villain, like the Nazis, killing innocents, no addictions, no accidents of fate. There are just the everyday blues. But unlike everyday life, there's no hint of sunshine, literally and figuratively (the movie takes place in New York City in the winter). The literal lack of sunshine didn't bother me so much as the complete lack of anything good in this movie.

Maybe good isn't the right word. The acting is good. The music is sublime. More impressive, all the music was recorded live; Oscar Isaac really is that talented (and is also now one of my many celebrity husbands). The cinematography is lovely and gray. There's a cat. A couple of them, actually. And there are funny moments. I actually laughed out loud a couple of times. But the story itself is unrelentingly sad. Llewyn is undeniably talented, but its like he really is the Midas of shit (as Carry Mulligan's character tells him). Nothing, abolsutely nothing goes right for him. He reacts like anyone might in the face of such a hostile universe: with hostility right back. And so the cycle of shit continues. For two hours.

The only light is the music, but its not doing what's its supposed to do for Llewyn, which is make him money. And so eventually, even that sours. That's what makes this movie so depressing, I think. Llewyn isn't willing to compromise his musical integrity and he's so talented that he shouldn't have to. But that's not how the real world works and its certainly not how the world in the movie works.

What really bothered me just how often negative shit seemed to happen. And only negative shit. When the end of the movie rolled around, it was like "that's it? Coen brothers, you're just going to show me two hours of unhappiness, and that's it? WHAT WAS THE POINT OF THAT?" Don't get me wrong, I get that not everything is unicorns and rainbows and puppies and shit. But there just wasn't any point to this negative shit, there wasn't any story. Llewyn ends up exactly where he started, only with a lot of depressing shit in between. And sorry, that just isn't very compelling. I'm a little tired of the "life is shit, doesn't that suck?" story. Try a little harder.

Please, if you really liked Inside Llewyn Davis for the story and not the gorgeous music, lovely cinematography, or general design of the movie, tell me why. Because as of right now, its the most depressing movie I've ever seen.

An evening with Patrick Bateman

The prospect of another long lonely night stretched in front of me. A movie, its always a movie that saves me from feeling totally adrift. What movie though? Netflix was full of suggestions. A Witty Comedy with a Strong Female Lead? How about a Supernatural Action/Adventure? Perhaps I’d like a film Critically Acclaimed and Based on a Novel? They all slid by as I clicked the remote over and over.

Mansfied Park was out. I’d watched all three versions of it already and in none of them had Fanny Price elicited the warm friendly feeling almost all of the other Austen heroines had. Maybe a Disney movie….but I realized I had exhausted Netflix’s feeble supply after I had finished The Sword in the Stone last weekend. The documentary I had started about sushi was downright depressing, all about how the popularity of Bluefin tuna was basically decimating wild populations. I didn’t even bother looking at Horror.

But as I quickly clicked by, I stopped on American Psycho. I don’t know why, really. There were several reasons. Years before, during a grad school game of charades, a friend had acted out one of the scenes (Pat Bateman checking out his Olympian physique while…entertaining a couple of women) with some of the funniest acting I’d ever seen. I’d read a review somewhere of the book and was intrigued. Yes, it was excruciatingly violent, yes, it was completely explicit in the depiction of that violence and yes, most of that violence was directed toward women. But the word “funny” came up again. And then again, when I read reviews of the movie. Terrifying and funny? “How bad could it be?” I thought, swiftly followed by “I can always turn it off if it gets too bad.”

Right.

Stupid.

Stupid, because movies have been scaring me since I was four years old, freaked out at a friends house after watching Ghostbusters, and then deciding to walk home alone at 4am rather than spend another minute not with my mother. When I was 11, the first ten minutes of It was enough to keep my light on for a week. In high school, the first shower after watching Psycho was almost paralyzing. And it was a good thing I had a roommate in college, because after seeing The Ring¸ I certainly wasn’t sleeping in an empty room with a tv (we turned it around so that it faced the door, as I recall). So it was stupid for me to attempt to watch a terrifying depiction of psychosis (real or imagined) at night by myself. 

When it was done, I thought, “That wasn’t so bad!” The ending was even sort of intellectually stimulating. Had everything been just a vivid fantasy? Or was the society he lived in so shallow that they really didn’t notice how crazy he was? Fascinating! Yes! Rational thoughts! But just in case, I turned on The King’s Speech, hoping that the uplifting tale of friendship and personal fortitude and my beloved Colin Firth's face would help erase from my mind the disturbing images I'd just watched.

With George VI's stammer sufficiently overcome, it was definitely time for bed. But I couldn't bring myself to start turning off lights. Rationality was ebbing away. Quickly. The lovely sound of Geoffrey Rush's Shakespearean recitations was fading away into blood and screams. The quiet of the house was whispering that if I turned off the lights, someone, no, not someone, he would be there. With a nail gun or something else just as horrific. I mustered up my courage "Don't be stupid. He's totally fictional! You locked the doors! Breaking and entering isn't his m.o. anyway! You have the same taste in music! Your cat will protect you!! PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER, WOMAN! NONE OF IT WAS REAL!" Clearly, I was grasping at any proverbial straws of courage I could find.

And came up completely empty-handed. Which is how, at age 30, I ended up spending the night with my light on, desperately trying to keep my eyes open, lest an evil (but gorgeous) Patrick Bateman invade. I tried once to turn off the light, but the reality of the darkness pressing in was too much. So the light stayed on. All. Night. Long.  Even my cat was disgusted with me. Seriously?

You'd think I'd learn my lesson, that I would know by now. But then again, I always thought eventually, the irrational fears of my childhood would slip away completely. Nope.

So if I ever mention wanting to watch Silence of the Lambs, no matter how good you think it is, please, please, please,  as you would a child, politely but firmly, with no hint of ambiguity, tell me "No."