O Sullivan, Where Art Thou?

“There's a lot to be said for making people laugh. Did you know that that's all some people have? It isn't much, but it's better than nothing in this cockeyed caravan.”

In Preston Sturges' 1941 film Sullivan’s Travels, a director by the name of John Lloyd Sullivan, famed for creating easygoing, inconsequential movies, decides that, in this time of crisis, what his country needs is a serious picture, a down-to-earth story of the American people. Sullivan pitches his film, O Brother Where Art Thou, to multiple studios, only to be rejected by them all; the studio heads inform Sullivan that his pitch oozes insensitivity, it’s tone-deaf. Sullivan has always lived a life of privilege, he has no experience with hardship, and his story of “American struggle” makes that glaringly obvious. So Sullivan sets off on a journey across America, determined to discover the real story. Along the way, Sullivan abandons his original film in favor of more accurately portraying the truth he has uncovered.

In 2000, the Coen Brothers took Sullivan's original pitch and ran with it: giving way to O Brother, Where Art Thou?

The movie makes no attempt to hide its absurdities; they seizes you by the throat and demands you pay attention, but there is no ignorance here, nor (solely) an attempt to be comedic. The Coens are mythologizing Americana, their story crafted with immense affection for folklore and history, both skewering and embracing the South of its setting in one motion. Yet it’s not the tales alone, but the atmosphere: every element, an artifact of this unique culture; the vastness of Depression-era America. The Coens want you not only to look back on this time, but to feel it. And how better to convey such an abstract concept than through the lens of one of the oldest, most mystical adventures known to man. An American Odyssey. Familiar events presented anew through folk legends. Fresh footprints on a dusty trail.

These are no rose glasses. A brown, near-grimy tinge permeates every frame. The Coens present it all: the good with the bad; the bad with the good. The failings are recognized hand-in-hand with just how preposterous they really were. Yet while laying bare both sides, the film refuses to slide into cynicism. Like the movie’s focal father, something can change (even for the better) while preserving one’s character. Ulysses is a stout atheist (“spiritually unaffiliated,” if you will), yet in the finale of his climactic ring hunt, he prays for salvation. A salvation which, once delivered, is “logically” explained away. It’s a lengthy process ironing out the kinks, but to throw away the whole shirt would be ludicrous.

Sometimes the best you can do is allow the absurd; sit back, enjoy the fire, and fantasize about what you would do with your portion of the treasure, all the while understanding that there was no treasure to begin with.