And here ya are, and it's a beautiful day.

Rating: 10/10 (28 June 2017)

In Fargo, the Coen brothers demonstrate their sheer mastery and control of black comedic tone, laying siege to a small, unsuspecting Minnesotan town with a grand criminal conspiracy. At least, that is how the opening captions announce it, white text on black, alerting the audience to its degree of seriousness and authenticity. This little white lie riffs on the same types of preludes often seen in true crime stories or serials such as Dragnet, always beginning with the ominous brass theme and a warning: "The story you are about to hear is true. Only the names have been changed to protect the innocent." And listen to how Carter Burwell's score serenades the opening shot of a car slowly appearing in deep fog, a Norwegian folk tune beginning with a few bells and whistles but then soaring to a crescendo of operatic ridiculousness. If Fargo takes place in chilly, rural North Dakota, mostly forgotten by America, its male characters certainly don't believe it. They think (or desire) themselves as self-made men, figures that can withstand the harsh winter and forge a path ahead. Much like that Paul Bunyan fella.
We are firstly introduced to Jerry Lundegaard, played by William H. Macy in a career-defining performance of such spinelessness that every time he is cornered by a shred of decency, he finds some way to weasel out of it. The genius of the Coens is to continually place him in situations that guide him to do the right thing, only to watch as Jerry splutters and fumbles an excuse for his wrongs. The opening pits his virtues against two hardened criminals (or that is the front they put up) who end up questioning his motives: why would a man want to kidnap his own wife, and why does he not simply ask his father-in-law for the money? Further scenes ramp up the dramatic irony as we witness his mastermind scheme fall to pieces; he sweats on the spot when Wade threatens to wrest control of his double-crossing, fretting not for his wife but for the handsome profit slipping through his fingers. The cruel irony is that his one moment of capability is stolen from him; on paper the numbers are solid, the plan looks fool-proof, but even this he cannot take full credit for. "It's my deal here!" he squeaks as a million dollars floats away, and with it the last vestiges of his father-in-law's approval.
This vein of quiet desperation and foolish masculinity continues in Carl, who repeatedly finds himself at odds with the small-town milieu. Like Jerry, he is obsessed with material gain beyond decency, a sore thumb sticking out from the rural tapestry of kitsch: relentless good cheer, comically exaggerated accents, an almost alien sense of satisfaction with their modest lives. His encounters are marked by cultural clashes aggravated by his incessant greed - his fury at having to surrender four dollars to an ever-smiling parking attendant, later revisited with a bloody twist, and the eye-popping incredulity he wears and elicits when he erupts at Grimsrud for suggesting they split the Sierra, never mind the million dollars he has already stashed away for himself. This hyper-virile brand of foolishness sees the men stumble in the ice and snow, discarded by their out-dated fantasies of power and control. Visually, the film presents winter as a gloomy mood in itself; there is seldom a hard shadow in Deakins' photography, but the residents are all smiles. Jerry, on the other hand, hacks with futility at his ice-covered windshield, and shrinks considerably when challenged on his Trucoat scam. Watch Carl literally interrupted mid-orgasm and handily beaten; he acts as if he owns the place, but he can't even get the waiter's attention.
The strong sense of place is crucial to Fargo's subversion of these fantasies and overarching genre expectations. The men come from the city hoping to cash in on Jerry's big score, but are physically rejected by the locale. It is through the sheer naivety and optimism of Fargo and Brainerd's residents that the Coens funnel their comedy, so blind to the evil intentions of the criminals that they simply carry on without a care. Jean knits and hums absentmindedly while watching daytime television, achieving a peace of mind that her husband could never be content with, and when a masked man with a crowbar taps at her back door, her first reaction is a curious tilt of the head. Various other interviewed witnesses convey the same mild bewilderment that a crime of such caliber could ever arrive at their doorstep - the affair is treated with the same amount of concern as the weather, or the score of last night's hockey game, interspersed with a few 'Yah' and 'Oh yah's along the way.
Fargo's slippery case of shifting protagonists sees it ditch Jerry for Marge, the film's cheery antithesis to the desperation and egotism of its men. Notice the precision of Frances McDormand's incredulity and disappointment she levels at Jerry, who thinks he can flee from his crimes, and at Gaear, who without a second thought stuffs his partner into a woodchipper. She scolds him like a child, "There's more to life than money, ya know?", and praises her husband's three cent stamp as if it was worth a million dollars. Could her character survive in today's films? Look at her counterpart in the Fargo television series. Carrie Coon's Gloria is at odds with modern technology and its overarching structures - automatic doors won't respond to her, and justice hides in a bureaucratic maze. She represents a righteousness that seems rarer and rarer each day, a morality no longer worth its weight, buffeted at every turn by larger forces out of her control. But Fargo sees her worth. Fargo believes that decent people get their turn, and that it's okay if the result is only a three cent stamp and cheap buffets. If only we had less Jerry Lundegaards, and more Marge Gundersons.