The Greatest Showman #1349 – Uneasy

When Michael Phillips arrived at the coffee house, it was nearly midnight. Yet, the cafe remained lively, filled with the hum of conversation, the clink of cups, and the hum of eager fingers typing away. It felt far from the dead of night.

Through the crowd, he could spot a few familiar faces—peers and colleagues, but most were new-generation film critics from various online platforms. In today's world, the lines between reporters and critics are often blurred, with many wearing multiple hats, sometimes even as photographers.

Their figures were almost identical: slightly hunched over, fingers flying over keyboards, each working feverishly on drafts. Sandwiches sat untouched on plates, while coffee cups were empty, likely having been refilled more than once.

Michael wasn't in a hurry.

He found a quiet corner, ordered a coffee, and let the soothing jazz fill the air. But something felt off, a vague sense of unease that he couldn't shake, though he couldn't pinpoint why. It wasn't until a ballad began to play—a fresh, moving tune—that he realized what was missing. That spark of inspiration was finally ignited.

He started typing.

"Do you remember what your dream looked like at the beginning?"

His fingers hovered over the keyboard, revising, editing. Then, the words flowed, finally settling on a title.

"Do you remember what life was like at the beginning?"

With that, the rhythm returned, and the words started to flow effortlessly.

"Drunken Country Ballad," the latest film by Joel and Ethan Coen, tells the simple, almost mundane story of a week in the life of folk singer LeVine Davis. There's no drama, no twists, no suspense—just an ordinary week in an extraordinary man's life.

Michael paused. This wasn't a film driven by star power or complex narratives like "No Country for Old Men" or "Burn After Reading." It was, in fact, one of the simplest works the Coen brothers had ever done. Yet, in its simplicity, it captured something raw and profound. Just like LeVine's music, it came from the heart, reflecting both the clarity and complexity of the soul.

"Following the film, we are transported to the early 1960s, before Bob Dylan's rise and the folk music explosion, where all eyes are on Levin Davis."

Levine Davis is a failure.

He drifts from one friend's house to the next, borrowing rooms to stay in, struggling to make a name in music. His dreams of becoming an artist seem laughable to others. He's abandoned his family, distanced from his sister and father in pursuit of something intangible. Yet, when it seems he's about to gain something—a commercial chorus gig, even—it ends badly.

Despite his persistence, he's constantly rejected. Not only is he failing in his career, but he's also failing in life. He's not even able to choose to give up—there's nothing left to give up.

In just a few days, he's unable to accomplish anything. His journey is one of constant disillusionment. But in the face of all this, one must ask: what keeps him going? And more importantly, what keeps anyone going?

This is the central question of the film. It's what makes it stand apart.

Clearly, LeVine has musical talent. His songs may not be great by conventional standards, but there's something there. He chooses to turn down money from commercial jingles, rejecting the lure of fame and fortune. For him, music is not a tool for success—it's something more. It's a soulful expression, a vehicle for the weight and color of life itself. To him, it's an escape from reality, a moment of golden sunshine.

This is his persistence. His stubbornness. For him, music is a fragment of his soul.

Michael's eyes glazed over as he recalled his feelings during the film. He was happy with this work—not only because it was a reflection of LeVine's journey but because the Coen brothers had avoided the most common trap in musical films: making them into hollow, shallow music videos.

Here, the music was the character.

Each song served a purpose. "Green Green Rocky Road" captured the feeling of road trips—free, light, unburdened. "The Death of Queen Jane" spoke to the tenderness of love. "The Shoals of Herring" brought with it memories of his father. And "500 Miles" illustrated the melancholic struggle between dreams and reality, the loneliness of being far from home.

And, of course, "Farewell Goodbye" marked the end of his dream.

Each lyric, each melody, told a story—a piece of LeVine's soul. It was an intimate experience, a glimpse into his life and the emotional weight he carried. Through each song, the audience witnessed his persistence and pain, understanding what he held onto, even when the world seemed to be against him.

The movie wasn't just about music—it was about life. About dreams. About what happens when the world doesn't care.

In the end, LeVine's journey is left unresolved. The Coen brothers don't give us the answers. Does he continue? Does he give up? Does he leave New York, or does he find some other path?

Ultimately, the choice is up to the audience.

"Are you willing to keep going?"

And that, Michael thought, was the crux of the movie. It was about remembering. Remembering what you once believed in, what your dreams once looked like, and what it was that kept you going when nothing seemed to be working.

LeVine's refusal to compromise, to let the commercial world destroy his soul—it was a form of resistance. It wasn't the maturity the world expects. It wasn't the "sophistication" that comes with compromise. Instead, it was the preservation of spirit. It was Nietzsche's idea of true maturity—keeping your soul intact despite the world's attempts to strip it away.

Ballads are like that. Movies are like that. Life is like that.

The film was the Coen brothers' most unassuming work, yet it offered a sweeping, ambitious view of an era—an era of folk music, of New York, of dreams fading away. But it was more than just a period piece; it was a film for the present day, for the 21st century, a reflection of the struggles that people still face.

And, at the heart of it, was LeVine—a man who, despite everything, refused to give up. Even if no one else cared.

As Michael finished his thoughts, his fingers trembled slightly over the keyboard. His eyes welled up, the raw emotion of the film still alive in his chest.

He raised the coffee cup to his lips, not yet drinking, just inhaling the bitter aroma, letting it remind him of something more—something that felt both timeless and fleeting.

The spirit of Greenwich Village in the 1960s hung in the air, and for a moment, it felt like the weight of a dream that might still be worth pursuing.