The Coen’s, Absurdism, and Diverse Director’s

The Coen’s style is one of a chameleon, changing to fit their latest take on Absurdist thought.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” “What did we learn, Palmer?” “I don’t know, sir.” “I don’t fucking know either. I guess we learned not to do it again.” “Yessir.” “Fucked if I know what we did.” “Yessir. It’s hard to say.” Cut to black. After over an hour of engaged watching, the Coen brother’s phenomenally funny Burn After Reading ends on the most purposefully anticlimactic note possible. Most writers would aim to have their audience anything but confused by the film’s final line. Meanwhile, the Coen brothers left viewers in their seats questioning the reason they bought their ticket. “All of this, for what?” That’s exactly the point.

What I find so fascinating about the Coen brothers, and other filmmaking anomalies, is their consistent output of quality, yet diverse, films. Burn After Reading left me cackling at its end credits, while No Country for Old Men had me gripping my seat throughout the runtime. Then there’s Inside Llewyn Davis, perhaps their most contemplative piece with muted grays and blues that exist in stark contrast to the loud, silly, comparatively neon O’ Brother, Where Art Thou? The Coen’s style is that of a chameleon, adjusting the visuals, tone, aesthetic, and essentially all elements of production to fit the story they choose to tell. To me, this ability is indicative of mastery. While I’m not a subscriber to the auteur theory (believing it takes far too much away from the cumulative gallons of blood, sweat and tears poured into production by hundreds of workers in favor of attributing the director as the “real genius” behind a film), Jean Renoir makes a point I simply cannot argue with. “A director makes only one movie in his life. Then he breaks it up and makes it again.” Kubrik and his hatred for humanity, Scorcesse with his modern crime machismo leading to sinful behavior, Paul Thomas Anderson presenting dysfunctional found families: masterful directors have the common trait of creating filmographies united by theme more than style. While one can identify a Kubrik film by the signature stare or a Scorsese flick by iconic needle drops, it is the narratives and themes they choose to tell that defines a director’s body of work and relative greatness. I find it fascinating to explore these director’s filmography because of the diversity; everyone enjoys a good plot twist. 

Which is why the Coen’s are, what I believe, to be some of the greatest working filmmakers. A simple glance at the projects they’ve collaborated on is enough to send any aspiring filmmaker into existential dread. I can’t even find the time to make a short film I’m happy with, and the Coen’s have made what many argue to be the greatest comedy and greatest drama ever within the same decade. What, then, ties these disparate pieces of art together? What is the thread that connects Llewyn to The Dude? Chigurh to Chad Feldheimer? Jerry Ludengaard and Delmar O’ Donnell? (The Coens are some of the best character writers as well). The answer: “I don’t know.”

Well, not literally. At least, I’d like to think I have an idea, I won’t be so bold to say I’ve dissected the inner workings of the Coen’s brains through their art. But the prevailing thought behind Llewyn’s cyclical suffering and Marge’s endless hunt for cosmetic surgery is a belief that may seem depressingly defeatist, but is in actuality, as the Coen’s have proved, quite malleable: the philosophy of Absurdism.

Again, I won’t pretend to be a master of this thought process, but I can attempt to articulate the Coen's impressive ability to visually differentiate perspectives on the same core philosophy. To do so, we need a baseline understanding. Absurdism, as defined by the New World Encyclopedia, is the philosophical perspective that human’s efforts to find meaning or a rationality to the world is pointless, as none exists in the way humans can understand. Therefore, the pursuit is absurd, meaning humanly impossible. In this way, it’s related to both existentialism and nihilism, but what marks the Coen’s as distinctly Absurdist is their belief in something. While Nihilism believes there is no purpose, Absurdism allows one to find purpose in the meaningless pursuit, or for that individual to create meaning of their own. 

And I believe it is this distinction that partially allows for their diverse filmmaking. While it may be difficult to point and laugh at the meaninglessness of the world if one truly believes there is nothing of value to be found in life, the belief that one can find their own meaning in an incomprehensible universe opens the door to that opportunity. Absurdism, in this way, seems potentially more flexible than its related philosophies. Or, maybe it simply appears that way because two creative geniuses have made it so. Regardless, the prevailing thought that imprints itself on every Coen’s project is Absurdist, and the ways in which it reveals itself is deliciously diverse. 

Inside Llewyn Davis has been described as a Sysiphian tale, with the spiteful, talented, ego-driven Llewyn Davis as the tortured spirit doomed to eternal suffering. Davis’ journey is one dominated by creeping shadows, deep swirling hues of blue and black, and an ever-fading melancholic hope. Davis’ opening shot announces itself glumly: a single spotlight on the war-torn Llewyn, beat from the battle he wages against himself and the world. A man of constant sorrow, he finishes a soulful performance of “Hang Me, Oh Hang Me” before being beaten in a dark alley. The resulting journey for musical success is a spiral; a loose and desperate attempt fitting for a philosophy that defines life as inherently illogical. It is one ignited by Llewyn’s own foolishness, which among other negative personality traits, are the motivators of his suffering. After the attack, he wakes up on the Gorfeins couch, one imprinted with his frame. On his way out, their cat escapes, requiring Davis to track it down, where on the way he visits his sister to ask for money, encounters his girlfriend who demands pay for her abortion, and records a demeaning pop song below Davis’ emotional maturity all before returning the cat to the Gorfeins. After learning it actually isn’t their’s, Lewis road trips to Chicago with two musicians for his dream audition, where a soulful performance receives a mute smile and confusion: “how is this going to make money?” The artist then hitchhikes back to New York, where he attempts to join the navy, only for that endeavor to fail too, which brings him back to the opening scene: performing at the Gaslight, getting beat in the alley, this time with a hint of a smile before cutting to black. 

A plot summary does not make for the most exciting article, but I believe tracking the narrative events is key to understanding the film’s Absurdism, and thus, the Coen’s guiding philosophy. Story beats are loosely tied together by disparate elements. Symbols and themes are scattered purposefully throughout the runtime, but their unique specificity gives the film an added supernatural dimension. The ending, obviously, asks the ultimate Absurdist question: what was it all for? The answer is what makes the Coen’s so interesting. It could be easy for one to assume the Absurdist film may end before an answer is given, but just as the philosophy posits life is meaningless, that doesn’t imply meaning is impossible to find. The Coen’s use the Absurdist philosophy not to say living is not worth living, but to highlight elements of the human condition that can provide meaning, as well as to point out the paradoxes that make up our world. Llewyn is the cause of his own suffering. We learn he is beaten by a performer’s wife, one he rudely heckled the night before. He is stubborn, refusing deals that would at least give him enough cash for a place to stay. He’s selfish, high strung, condescending and incapable of seeing this. The result is the Sysiphian tale, one that teaches its audience that the world may be Absurdist, that it may seem like nothing matters, but that at the same time, it could be ourselves that make this so. 

And this more somber take on Absurdism is reflected in the visuals. As previously mentioned, Inside Llewyn Davis looks as depressing as Davis feels. The movie, while still integrating signature Coen’s humor, exists in an impossibly gray world. Every color is a shade of muted blue. A close up will  haunt audience’s by forcing the look of a broken man into their face. Claustrophobic frames and expansive wide shots both work to make Davis appear small and trapped. The film is quieter than others in the brother’s filmography, with Davis’ emotionally damaging songs being the most memorable sounds of the entire film. Overall, the tone is one of dread, fitting for a tale of Absurdist, infinite suffering.

The philosophy is again examined in Burn After Reading, which could not be further from Inside Llewyn Davis in just about every way. Where Davis’ story was patient and contemplative, Burn After Reading moves at a breakneck pace with whip pans, tracking shots and crash zooms replacing the relatively static camera that paralyzed Davis. The opening shot alone has more movement and energy than the tired, dragging camera used in Davis that perfectly captured our main character’s exhaustion. Speeding towards his superior’s office, analyst Osbourne Cox is tracked with a camera low to the ground as digital text defines the location as the CIA headquarters types itself in frame, with accompanying digital sound effects of course. These stylistic elements  immediately remind audiences of the spy thrillers the film parodies, and would be complete outliers in the melancholic Davis released just five years later. In the office, Cox is demoted due to his alcoholism. Ego damaged beyond repair, he quits, opting for a “dignified” exit as he screams and embarasses himself all the way to the CIA’s front door. Like Davis, what follows is a tale as confusing as it is hilarious. Once again, seemingly impossible elements unite polar opposites so specific and well-defined, it is hard to believe the Coen’s didn’t meet their characters in real life. Somehow, the rest of the film revolves around Osbourne’s digital financial records and other files, which ends up in the hands of Chad Feldheimer (the definition of a sports junky) and Linda Litzke (insecurity incarnate). The two are employees at a local gym, who got their hands on the “secret government files” after Cox’s wife filed for divorce and gave his financial information to her lawyer, who left them on a CD at the very gym Chad and Linda work at. Also within the fray is a paranoid U.S. marshal having an affair with Cox’s wife, attempted blackmail, communication with the Russian government, a sweet boat house, murder, and so much more. All sparked by Cox’s termination, Burn After Reading has a plot Absurdist in nature, the butterfly effect on full display. A story so ridiculous is amplified by hilarious dialogue and the aforementioned stylish cinematic elements that emphasize the comedy and parody. And again, Absurdism does not entail meaninglessness. From my perspective, Burn After Reading uses the Absurdist philosophy to highlight the, well, Absurd adherence so many films have to narrative logic. As a parody of spy blockbusters, and with a history of manipulating story structure, Burn After Reading sits comfortably within the Coen brother’s thematic web as a critique of conventional narrative structure and filmmaking. Through this lens, thefinal lines highlight the film’s self-referential storytelling themes: you don’t need a film to make sense for it to be entertaining, just look at real life.  

Impressed by their differences, it is once again understandable to be confused as to how such distinct films could have any relation. However, when parsing through the individual branches, we see a forest with its roots in Absurdism. In both Inside Llewyn Davis and Burn After Reading we have narratives woven by string and glue, the most random circumstances somehow connected by miraculous happenstance. There are highly specific characters with distinct quirks that make them feel realized. Both are commentaries on meaning; how to live a life that is meaningful, and the place “meaning” has in screenplay’s. They play with logic and cohesion in creative ways that, despite being presented with opposite tones, offer various perspectives on the common theme of Absurdism. And these commonalities stretch across their filmography. The Big Lebowski has a similarly absurd plot with highly specific characters, just as No Country for Old Men finishes with a scene that too makes the audience wonder: “what was it all for?”

And the Coen’s will give a dozen answers, each one varying style but united in philosophy. While my analysis may have painted the idea that I prefer one film over another, that couldn’t be further from the truth. However, that just as easily could be the case for some viewers, and that is partially what I love about the Coen’s and diverse director’s as a whole. Everyone has a favorite “Coen’s film,” or a “go-to Scorsese flick,” and that is always telling of the one who holds the opinion. Diverse director’s spark conversation as much as they create intrigue. They become personality tests, and the surrounding discourse around a diverse director can lead to meaningful conversation of their beliefs. A consistent thematic web invites thorough analysis of a collection of films. Furthermore, I simply believe it takes strong, creative and thematic work to craft a filmography around a core set of themes. Director’s turn to philosophers by using the medium for what I believe it is made to do: explore. Diverse director’s are thus examples of why I love film; they demonstrate the medium’s flexibility, as well as its merit as thought experiments. Ironically then, by exploring Absurdism through film, a philosophy defined by a lack of meaning, the Coen’s prove why the medium is meaningful in the first place; it provides audiences new, diverse perspectives on life.