Fargo
A real good movie that takes a cold look at the value of a little bit of money
(Editor’s Note: If you’re new here, check out the Film Lit Pitch Introduction and the Film Lit Pitch Coming Attractions. And now, let’s start the show.)
“How the heck are ya?!”
I’ve loved Fargo for a long time. It is one of the first films I thought of both when I got the chance to teach my first Film Lit course, and when I first imagined this newsletter. It’s a culmination of everything the Coen brothers do exceptionally well, and is in so many ways a textbook Film Lit film.
You’ll get debate among their legions of fans, but it would not be wrong to call Fargo the Coen brothers’ masterpiece. Perhaps as much as any other, it showcases their range, their mastery of disparate genres. In Fargo, it’s not so much that the Coen brothers blend tones well; it’s that they switch tones quickly and remorselessly.
“I’m in a little bit of trouble.”
When I taught this film, I focused on these rapid shifts and stark contrasts in tone and setting—and how they forwarded the film’s agenda. And, to be sure, the Coen brothers aren’t shy about announcing the film’s thesis. I mean, in chiding Gaer, Marge sounds like a chorus from ancient Greek tragedy:
“And for what? For a little bit of money. There’s more to life than a little money, you know. Don’t you know that? And here ya are. And it’s a beautiful day. Well . . . I just don’t understand it.”
She sincerely doesn’t. And, for what it’s worth, she doesn’t even know about the murders at the airport. Moreover, she has no idea how right she is to call it “a little bit of money.” After all, she might know the actual ransom, but she has no idea that Carl died because he wanted to haggle over half the cost of a car, and Gaer is willing to kill Carl for half the cost of a car. Now, to be clear, half the cost of a car is more than a little bit of money to me; but then, I don’t have $960,000 buried somewhere waiting for me. (Or, do I?)
(Speaking of known unknowns, I want to quickly mention one of my favorite features of the story: we never know the full extent of Jerry’s “little bit of trouble.” Yes, his calls with Riley Diefenbach reveal he’s involved in financial fraud. But it seems clear that that fraud is to get money to cover some other “trouble.” What’s not clear is how many crimes and criminals Jerry got himself involved with before the beginning of the film.)
“It’s just the three cent.”
The shots with Marge and Norm—which consistently feature busy compositions and warm colors—establish a worldview of humble appreciation. The three-cent mallard stamps, wake-up loogies, and Arby’s-covered faces might not be glamorous, but they are more than enough for Marge to say in the best faith, “We’re doin’ pretty good, Norm.”
It’s also more than enough to lead Mike Yanagita to shoot the moon and lie pathetically and hit on Marge over a Diet Coke at the Radisson, just for a chance at the life Marge has. For her part, Marge is practically despondent when she learns the truth about Mike. It’s not that she needed a reminder of how good she has it, or even that she sees the encounter as a reminder. But it reminds us. And that she is so disappointed in Mike after the fact speaks to her capacity to believe the best in people.
(Note: if I were teaching the film again, I’d want to ask the class the following: What is she thinking as she eats and reflects in her car? Does she think she wasted her compassion on Mike? Or does she think Mike is even more deserving of compassion now?)
“You’re a smooth smoothie, ya know.”
And then there are Gaer, Carl, and Jerry. From a teaching perspective especially, it matters that their realm is the winter landscapes of Minnesota and North Dakota. Their defining shots are wide, to emphasize how cold and barren their worlds are. One of my all-time favorite shots is the crane shot of Jerry walking to his car after the emotional roller coaster of a meeting he has with Wade and Stan. He’s at a low point (one that won’t be his lowest for long), and the camera looks down on him, to highlight that he’s a small, insignificant loser who is in way over his head and has no help coming. The next two shots that chase that one, an over-the-shoulder shot of Jerry in his car and the hold of his futile, frustrated efforts to scrape his windshield, accentuates his (deserved) suffering.
The opening announcement that the events in the film are based on a true story gives the Coen brothers cover to present us with criminals who are very bad at criming. And I don’t think it’s a “Jar Jar Binks is actually a Sith lord”-level theory to posit that this is Carl’s first job. After all, Shep is emphatic to Jerry that he didn’t vouch for Carl. And Carl hardly displays the composure one would think necessary to be a proficient criminal.
But to me, the close-up of Carl’s face when Gaer shoots the state trooper is the moment that confirms that he is a novice: just as the rear-view mirror’s reflection of the patrol car’s headlights illuminates his face, so does the murder itself illuminate Carl to the reality that crime is a rough business. His almost impossibly ill-conceived decision to bury the money next to the fence, then, makes sense. Before we know of his death, the camera gives us twin wide shots of the fence, and a wide shot of Carl falling on his way back to the car, and thus confirms for us that he will not succeed.
Gaer, on the other hand, is no inexperienced punk. Indeed, Gaer is stoic and inured to the pain his crimes cause. It’s fitting that he gets caught because the noise from his most depraved act allows Marge to sneak up on him: his own wanton cruelty leads directly to his demise. His futile escape effort, one that parallels the one of the driver he murdered, ends with a close-up on his snow-covered face, and thus gives the audience a chance to revel in his suffering.
(Personal note: the wood-chipper shots are my least favorite in the film, and it bums me out that they are some of the most famous. I know there’s a lot of gratuitous violence. (In fact, I stopped teaching the film as part of an effort to reduce the amount of violence and profanity in the course.) And I know the graphic nature of the violence has a narrative value. But these shots seem especially gratuitous and unsubtle.)
“Sir, you have no call to get snippy with me. I’m just doin’ my job here.”
I first taught this film in my Visual Storytelling unit, focusing on the camera work and the ways it helped communicate the film’s premise. If I taught it again, I could see it fit well in a unit called something like, “Zeitgeists of American Decades.” More ambitiously, I sometimes fantasize about an entire course of films that speak to specific American eras. I mean, as a cautionary tale, the film is ideally set in the American 1980s, a decade defined in the popular imagination by dangerously blind greed.
(Note to self: create and present a film list for this fantasy course at some point.)
“So I called it in. End of story.”
See you next time on The Film Lit Pitch, when we discuss The Bad News Bears (1976).