Iced

There are certain fundamentals we've come to expect from a murder/detective movie these days: moonlit killings set to dramatically pulsing music; crazed yet ingenious killers who leave puzzling clues; single-minded detectives with burning eyes who sacrifice their personal lives for the sake of justice …

Fargo, the latest film from the Coen Brothers, throws all that nonsense straight into the pooper. And because of that dearth of dramatic gloss, it's far more jolting than your run-of-the-mill serial killer psycho-drama.

In the world of Fargo, the criminal masterminds are actually bland little weasels grubbing for money, murderers are bumbling losers, and detectives are everyday folks who watch TV at night then go to sleep by 11. The setting isn't the dark underworld of New York or the glittering overworld of L.A.–it's the snowy expanses of Minnesota in the dead of winter, where the cars of choice are four-door Chevys and the prevailing fashion statement is a tightly zipped parka.

Fargo thoroughly deglamorizes every Hollywood precept about murder that we've come to know and love, balancing that with a dark humor that simultaneously makes you laugh and then cringe with recognition. It's the oddest movie yet by Joel and Ethan Coen, and that's saying quite a bit.

Much has been written about how Fargo is supposedly a return to the Coen Brothers' roots, i.e. their clever neo-noir debut Blood Simple. Although this insightful bit of analysis comes straight from the press kit ("For Joel and Ethan Coen, Fargo marks a return to their roots"), it isn't quite accurate. Other than the fact that, yes, both movies contain some murders and star Frances McDormand, the two couldn't be more different.

Blood Simple was chock-a-block with Coen trademarks: zooming cameras, larger than life characters, amazing lighting and sound effects. Fargo, on the other hand, is starkly photographed with nary a trick shot to be found. The characters, although often silly, don't rise to cartoon proportions. And the story is completely believable, not to mention based on an actual murder case. If anything, Fargo is a clean break from the Coens' usual style of self-aware, hyper-crazed film making. The result is something that both Coen fans and Coen-haters should find engrossing.

The tale would make any TV movie-of-the-week producer drool: Jerry Lundegaard (William M. Macy) is a Minneapolis car salesman who's been stealing money from GMAC Financing by selling non-existent cars. With GMAC breathing down his neck, he comes up with a desperate plan to recoup the money: have his wife kidnapped by two hired thugs, tell her wealthy father they want $1 million, and pocket most of the cash. Nobody gets hurt, and he'll be a rich man.

Unfortunately, nothing proceeds as planned. The two thugs (Steve Buscemi and Peter Stormare) kill a highway patrolman who stops their car–as well as the two witnesses who have the misfortune of driving by. Later, the father insists on handing over the money to the kidnappers himself, cutting Jerry out of the money loop. Things get much worse shortly thereafter.

Our first major clue that this is no ordinary murder movie (beyond a hilarious kidnap sequence involving a shower curtain) is the appearance of our bold detective, the very pregnant Marge Gunderson (McDormand). Trudging through the snow in bulky overcoat and oversized hat, she looks more like a cast reject from Home Improvement than a police inspector. Then, as she closely examines the gaping bullet hole in the highway patrolman's skull, she offhandedly says, "Well, he looked like a nice enough guy, yah."

The trained movie-going senses reel. Shouldn't this be the scene where the hardened detective examines the murder victim, shows disgust, then grimly vows to track down the killer? Instead, Marge looks like she's inspecting a loaf of bread that didn't rise.

Later, as she checks the grisly murder scene of the two witnesses, she doubles up, as if about to vomit. We think, Aha, here it comes! Instead, she comments "Morning sickness," stands up, pauses, and says, "Oh, it's passed."

Marge is clearly a different sort of small-town movie cop–one who's probably a lot more realistic than the typical pot-bellied Carroll O'Connor variety. McDormand gives Marge a blank-faced politeness that never seems to waver. She is seemingly unaffected by gruesome murders or a lack of clues. She just methodically does her job in a matter-of-fact way, unraveling the confused circumstances until they make sense.

This may not be the stuff of Hollywood drama, but the Coens draw out a lot of humor from the juxtaposition of deranged behavior and the placid winter wonderland. The running joke here is that all Midwesterners are like Marge–polite, smiling, oddly unemotional sorts with a wacky accent. But in the case of Lundegaard, that affable mask is hiding serious evil. Macy plays him with a gee-willickers charm, creating a sort of clean-cut guy flash-frozen from a ’50s sit-com. Beneath his gaze, however, Macy subtly reveals the gleam of desperation that sets the whole improbable scam into motion. He is no cartoon.

Whether you love or hate the Coens (it's an either/or proposition), it's undeniable that they've created their own particular style and vision of film making. They are among the few you can truly call "auteurs," whose work is readily distinguishable from anybody else's (and believe me, despite all the obsession with "name" directors, most of them are fairly interchangeable). With Fargo, the Coens have ventured in a new direction, which should gain them new admirers while still retaining their "Coen-ness." So here's to the boys.

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