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Frances McDormand investigates one of many pointless slaughters, in the Coen's bleak but fantastic Fargo |
Director:
Joel and Ethan Coen
Cast:
Frances McDormand (Marge Gunderson), William H. Macy (Jerry Lundegaard), Steve
Buscemi (Carl Showalter), Peter Stormare (Gaear Grimsrud), Harve Presnell (Wade
Gustafson), John Carroll Lynch (Norm Gunderson), Steve Reevis (Shep Proudfoot),
Kristin Rudrüd (Jean Lundegaard)
Sometimes
you see a film and, for whatever reason, you expected something totally
different. It can throw you when something is so different from your
expectations. With Fargo I had been led to expect a comedy. A comedy
with dark undertones, but a comedy never the less. Fargo is in fact such
a blackly, violently, grim piece of work – with lashings of dark comedy – that
I was completely turned off by it. Watching it again, understanding the quirky
blackness and nihilistic optimism (yes that’s right!) it contains, I
appreciated it more and more as the masterpiece it is.
In
Minneapolis, Jerry Lundegaard (William H. Macy) is a down-on-his luck car
dealer, heavily in debt, who arranges for two small-time criminals (Steve
Buscemi and Peter Storemare) from Fargo, North Dakota, to kidnap his wife,
splitting the $80,000 ransom (while telling his wealthy father-in-law the
ransom is actually $1 million). However, the kidnapping quickly gets bogged
down in an escalating cycle of murder and violence, and events quickly spin
out-of-control. All this is investigated by heavily-pregnant and relentlessly
positive police chief Marge Gunderson (Frances McDormand).
Only the
Coens could have made film that is so nihilistic, in which life is so cheap and
death so meaningless, but yet at the same time strangely hopeful and
life-affirming. Because even after all the horror and casual murder that fills
the film, its heart remains the warmth of Marge Gunderson. The film continually
returns to the simple affection of her relationship with her husband (a hugely
sweet John Carroll Lynch). Even her pregnancy (and their obvious, unshowy
delight in it) suggests a hopeful new world, moving away from the horrors of
this one. It’s a genuine, emotional heart at the centre of the story, which
grounds all the violence and mayhem.
And there is
a lot of violence. The film is punctured at several points by brutal and
unexpected killings. The body count is extraordinarily high (seven people die
during the film, which considering the cast is so small and the running time so
tight is pretty darn high). The camera doesn’t shy away from the horrific after-effects
of killing – the suddenness, and the cold grimness of the bodies left behind. The
killing is often random and pointless, with several bystanders suffering: at
one point the camera pans past a parking attendant, in the wrong place at the
wrong time, slumped dead on the floor of his booth. And all of this over some
money. Well, that and the fact that Peter Storemare’s thug is a psychopath.
All this
disaster of course spins out from the feckless vacancy of William H. Macy’s
Jerry Lundergaard, a sad-sack loser and overtly “nice guy” who you feel has
been an unimpressive, quietly resentful failure his entire life. Macy has never
been better, not only making Jerry empty and desperate but also quietly bitter
and frustrated. He’s never actually that sympathetic – there is an un-empathetic
shallowness in him. David Thomson described him as “a scoundrel, and in the end
amiability is as nothing.” Even when he’s being humiliated, you can’t really warm
to him. There are several brilliant sequences where Lundergaard’s anger and
resentfulness bubble under his “Minnesota-nice” attitudes – be that facing his
over-bearing father across the dining room table, or furiously scraping at his
car in the ice.
That
“Minnesota-nice” accent and rhythm of speaking, its impeccable good manners, are
the source of a lot of the films fun and warmth. Every character around the
edges of the drama is sweetly optimistic, scrupulously polite and positive.
It’s part of the Coens’ genius to set such a cold and violent drama within the
confines of a world which is upbeat and positive. There is a brilliant
contrasting comedy to the harshness of the world against the gentle happiness
of Minnesota. It’s endlessly endearing and sweet.
The centre
of this is Frances McDormand as Marge Gunderson, perhaps one of the quickest
and sharpest investigators you’ll see in drama, able to compartmentalise the
brutality of crime from the warmth of her home life. McDormand is simply
excellent, the beating heart of the movie, despite the fact she doesn’t even
appear until it is almost a third of the way in. Her gentle but astute
investigation of the crime is marvellously Miss-Marple-like in its sharpness.
But she extends the same shrewd and generous understanding of human nature to
her personal life: there is a marvellous sequence where, having agreed to meet
an old friend from college, she gently lets him down after recognising the
lonely divorcee wants something very different from the meeting. That’s not
surprising, considering the gentle supportiveness and love in her relationship
with her husband gives the film a constant respite of humanity.
Marge may
see the world of violence, she may even be able to live in it sometimes, but
she doesn’t really understand it. And that’s not surprising because the Coens’
plot here revolves sort of around money, but it’s mostly around mistakes,
fuck-ups and confusion. It just so happens that a number of the people involved
are dangerous, proud, devoid of conscience or all three. It’s a disaster of
epic proportions. But it spins out of no planning, just events going out of
control. Jerry’s father in law (played excellently by Harve Presnell, a truly
imposing slab of masculinity and the prototype bully) is of course far too
controlling and arrogant to not take matters into his own hand by playing
hardball with killers.
And those
killers are both excellent. It’s a perfect role for Buscemi – scuzzy, fast
talking, weaselly – with a look of panic behind the eyes. He’s a small-time
hood, out of his depth, who makes some terrible mistakes and resorts to killing
and violence. He’s a perfect match with Peter Storemare’s softly spoken,
chillingly blank killer who goes about “cleaning up” any mess with a ruthless
simplicity.
But that’s
the thing about this film. It might be full of ruthless people and killers, but
it ends with Marge and her husband, together in bed, spending time together.
They have a future and it’s one of simple family values and hope. There may be
mindless, terrible killing out in the world – senseless violence that goes
nowhere and means nothing – but there is still the warmth of family
relationships, the charm of simple home values. It’s a nihilistic film where
life is cheap – but it leaves you with a warm and happy feeling.
It’s also of
course marvellously made – if you had any doubt about the Coens’ mastery of
cinema, watch this – it’s superbly edited and brilliantly paced. It’s a perfect
length, short, sharp and achingly profound. It’s also marvellously shot by
Roger Deakins. I hated Fargo when I first saw it. But re-watching it
twice since then, it’s a marvel. A truly unique and deeply wonderful film.
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