Being [sic] Llewyn Davies [sic]

In fairness, 12 Years a Slave is said to be the best homoerotic SM flick since Cruising. But I and my fellow Celts are still atoning for our rejection of the Anglo-Saxons in the 8th century, and my offer to sit out 6 years in order to reduce the film to a manageable 67 minutes and skip the Brad Pitt deus ex machina stupidity was rejected. So off to a cat film set in Greenwich Village (“I can has folkburger”) we went.

Joel and Ethan Coen are still God, and John Goodman their most gorgeous prophet, and the film a splendid compilation of all the slights felt by anyone who has failed to get ahead, and everyone fucked Justin Timberlake’s wife. Tipsy free-association, with which one seeks to compensate for a lack of creativity and intelligence, quickly produced several important findings:

  1. All three cats are one and the same. Mrs Gorfein is lying when she says Cat 2 has no scrotum – no photo no talk – and the freeway mog is some kind of fucked up Freudianism referring to Diane’s retained sprog, and loss blabla.
  2. This is so obviously plagiarised from East End C’s dad’s novel about a schizophrenic man whose various personalities all resemble one another and all have the same name (publisher wanted).

Suzanne Vega said “I feel they took a vibrant, crackling, competitive, romantic, communal, crazy, drunken, brawling scene and crumpled it into a slow brown sad movie,” and she was always a complete fucking idiot, and the drunk hiccuping hipster arsehole with red trousers in the Hackney Picturehouse left before he was assaulted, and the chorus sang Tom Lehrer’s Folk Song Army:

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