Manners not minded in Fargo

There’s a term, “Minnesota Nice,” used to describe the false politeness of certain people in that region of the United States. As detailed in the Minneapolis Star Tribune, it includes a “disinclination to intrude,” a “natural aversion to conflict and confrontation,” “the reluctance to make a fuss or draw attention,” and “a massive dose of passive-aggressive behavior.”

If that sounds like perfect thematic fodder for a black comedy about a kidnap-turned-multiple-homicide you’re on the same page as the Coen Brothers, who set their masterpiece Fargo in the snow-ridden region. Meet Jerry Lundegaard (William H. Macy), with all the trappings of an ordinary middle-class life in suburban Minneapolis. He’s got the house, the family, the car dealership job right down to the drab title — executive sales manager. And he’s polite as heck. “How’s that Sierra workin’ out for ya?” he asks with a smile to… the man he hired to kidnap his wife?

In Fargo, the phoniness of polite society acts as a veneer of protection for criminals. Witness Lundegaard — desperate for money for reasons we never learn (one of the great film mysteries) — folksy his way through a conversation with a loan officer he’s defrauding who complains how hard it is to get him on the phone: “It’s pretty darn busy here but that’s the way we like it,” Lundegaard chuckles. And the clichés work… for a bit. But as we’re immediately clued into when Lundegaard and his accomplices can’t even get the time of their first meeting right — 7:30? 8:30? — these men are no criminal masterminds, and as they blunder through their murderous caper, their world inevitably closes in in what would be a hilarious comedy of errors if not for their frighteningly cavalier attitude toward human life.

Criminals this thoughtless really exist, which is why we have no trouble believing the opening text declaring the story true, “told exactly as it occurred.” The result is a haunting elegy, each innocent death a reminder how fragile our world is amidst those who simply don’t care. The only problem? It’s not true. The Coen Brothers are jerking our chain, heightening beautifully outrageous window-dressing moments like Lundegaard rehearsing a panicked phone call in his kitchen before calling his father-in-law, or his nice-’til-the-bitter-end “Just a sec’!” as he climbs out his hotel window as police barrel in. “If an audience believes that something’s based on a real event, it gives you permission to do things they might otherwise not accept,” Joel Coen once told Time Out Magazine. Credit the Coens’ creativity to break rules we didn’t realize exist — on some level it’s appropriate this movie about false appearances begins with a bald-faced lie.

The revelation of fiction also spotlights a story arc for protagonist Marge Gunderson (Frances McDormand in an Oscar turn) — however subtle it may be. Tasked with solving three of the murders, the competent police chief shares an affectionate relationship with her husband that’s the only source of warmth or authenticity in this entire cold bleak world (even Lundegaard’s conversations with his son are darkly clinical). But this also may be her greatest vulnerability (her pregnancy notwithstanding) as her willingness to see good in people leaves us wondering if she’s up to the challenge after letting Lundegaard folksy his way out of an interview with a few laughs about Babe the Blue Ox. Not until her odd encounter with an old acquaintance whom she later learns lied to her does she realize: not everyone is polite as they seem. From there all it takes is a second visit to Lundegaard with a little more pressing for his world to crumble, even more fragile than ours.