SNOW JOB
There's an unspoken theme running through just about every film made by brothers Joel and Ethan Coen, from BLOOD SIMPLE through MILLER'S CROSSING and BARTON FINK to their most recent, FARGO (1996), and it is this: Major crime -- robbery, kidnapping, murder -- should not be left to amateurs. And sometimes, it shouldn't even be left to the professionals.
Jerry Lundegaard (William H. Macy) is about as amateur as they come. A car salesman from Minnesota who's in deep financial doo-doo, Jerry hatches a scheme by which his wife will be kidnapped, his wealthy father-in-law (Harve Presnell) will fork over the cash, and he'll split the take with the kidnappers. Jerry, despite his best (or worst) intentions, is not the brightest bulb in the Christmas tree, and the thugs he hires for the job -- snappish, motormouthed Carl Showalter (Steve Buscemi) and silent, vicious Gaear Grimsrud (Peter Stormare) -- aren't exactly brain surgeons themselves. Before long, there's a trail of dead bodies in the Minnesota snow, and a pregnant Chief of Police (Frances McDormand) is quietly figuring out what went down...
After the megadollar tanking of THE HUDSUCKER PROXY (undeservedly, in Da Flatline's opinion), FARGO was almost universally greeted with critical and commercial praise. It's certainly closer to prime Coen than HUDSUCKER's cartoony nostalgia, full of oddball characters, unpredictable plot twists, and splashes of ultraviolence. Despite its rep as a (black) comedy, the first half of the film (the planning, execution, and falling-apart of the kidnapping) is almost disturbingly grim. When death comes in this film, one greets it not with the surprised whoop of laughter that a PULP FICTION elicits, but more with a horror-movie gasp of shock.
As the weaselly, chronically dishonest Lundegaard, Macy does the near impossible: he makes you feel sorry for the schmuck even as every fib and scheme he concocts falls apart. Buscemi is, as always, non pariel; his Showalter is a spiritual cousin of RESERVOIR DOGS' Mr. Pink, alternating between cynical wisecracks and bug-eyed rage. Stormare, on the other hand, makes no attempts to bring likeability to the sullen, silent Grimsrud: he's a big blonde psychopath who's clearly in touch with his Cro-Magnon side and who shoots cops with the same single-mindedness he uses to demand pancakes for lunch.
And then there's Marge Gunderson (McDormand, in her Oscar-winning role), and a less-likely heroine you'd ever find: seven months pregnant, unflappable (her strongest reaction to one of Grimsrud's murder victims is a soft "Oh, jeez"), and relentlessly nice. Add to that the Far-North colloquialisms ("ya" is neck-and-neck with "f***" in this flick) and you could have ended up with a flat-out caricature. Thankfully, McDormand resists the temptation; whether fending off the advances of an ex-classmate or drawing her gun on a suspect, you never doubt that this could be a real person. For my money, FARGO's best scenes are between Marge and husband Norm (John Carroll Lynch), who paints wildlife portraits; they're the sort of couple who don't need to talk a lot, but still like each other a lot (he brings her Arby's burgers for lunch, she brings him nightcrawlers) and are quite comfortable with each other. Lotta people I know could take lessons in marital happiness from these two (present company included...).
A lot of moviegoing folks don't like the Coens and their style of filmmaking, calling it cold and show-offy. They are most certainly an acquired taste. But it's ironic that a film that takes place in the Midwest dead of winter should be their warmest and most humanistic to date.
Oh ya, we got more FARGO links, you betcha:
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