The Near Destruction of the Family Unit

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An Inside Job

The most pivotal scene in Fargo happens twelve minutes and forty-three seconds into the movie. In the middle of telling Scotty (Tony Denman) that they don’t want him going out for hockey, the phone rings. As Jean (Kristin Rudrüd) then sets her mixing bowl on the kitchen island as she turns to answer it, the camera stays on her while keeping the Pyrex Forest Fancies mushroom pattern just out of focus in the foreground. The scene is pivotal not because Wade (Harve Presnell) is ready to give Jerry (William H. Macy) a shot, however.

The scene is pivotal because my mother had those exact same bowls.

Plenty of moms in the ‘80s did, but my mom is specifically from the Fargo metropolitan area, and when Fargo came out, some of her aunts were terribly offended—not by the brutal violence on screen, mind you, but by the fact that their accents were so prominently displayed and played for laughs. My dad is from Grand Forks, even further up the Minnesota/North Dakota border, and so no matter how South Suburban Minneapolis my upbringing was, our family was well-versed in, well, all of it. And it’s with those roots that it’s worth stating that Fargo isn’t a movie about money turning the average person into a monster.

Fargo is a movie about the dissatisfaction of Marge Gunderson (Frances McDormand) with her marriage.

Watching Fargo from a true Minnesotan perspective unlocks an understanding that outsiders can’t necessarily access. The Coen Brothers essentially introduced the concept of Minnesota Nice to the general population through this movie, but they also didn’t quite explain what Minnesota Nice is. Most people assume that Minnesota Nice is a system built on passive-aggressive statements. They’re wrong. Minnesota Nice is a system of full-bore, in-your-face, nonstop aggression. To clarify: every conversation every character has with each other in Fargo is a knock-down down drag-out war.

The concept of Minnesota is bleak. Poor farmers from Norway travelled across an ocean, traversed the Great Lakes on a boat, landed in Chicago, moved west, saw a gray, frozen wasteland, and thought, yep, that’s home. Surviving in such harsh conditions requires fortitude, but also community: if the winter was about to dump ten feet of snow on you with temperatures dropping to -20º Fahrenheit, you had to know you could rely on your neighbors. But the early immigrants were also extremely religious, sticking closely to a stoic form of Lutheranism that helped define their simple, clean living and disdain for anyone who lived a more colorful life. See: Babette’s Feast (ignore the fact that they’re Danes; concentrate on the Pietism).

From that, you get Minnesota Nice: an informal yet codified communication system that establishes norms to maintain civility during direct confrontation. You can see it when Mr. Mohra (Bain Boehlke) politely recounts to Officer Olson (Cliff Rakerd) the death threats he received from Carl Showalter (Steve Buscemi). You can also see it break down when Jerry snookers the car buyer into paying for the TruCoat, prompting a stutter before he’s able to spit out, “You’re a f-f-fucking liar.” In summary, Minnesota Nice is more easily compared to war’s rules of engagement than anything, which is how any true Minnesotan can see the tension in Marge’s marriage where outsiders cannot.

In all honesty, I felt compelled to write this after listening to the Fargo episode of Blank Check. Longtime readers know I love listening to David Sims and Griffin Newman apply critical analysis to the films they’re watching, but during the episode, they kept referring to the marriage of Marge and Norm (John Carroll Lynch) as a cozy, loving, and safe relationship. I think there’s a different read.

When we’re first introduced to the couple, they’re in bed sleeping, about to be woken by a phone call telling Marge that there’s been a murder. Our first introduction to Norm, however, is his broad forearm slinging over Marge’s side as she answers the phone, the rest of him still out of view of the camera. This move suggests a version of passive possessiveness—the world is beckoning his wife, and he doesn’t want to let her go, even if he can’t fully wake up to state his case. When she tells him she has to go, he insists on making her breakfast even though she declines multiple times. “Gotta eat a breakfast,” he says before he hocks up phlegm, facing the wall. The camera lingers on Marge as a soft smile creeps over her lips. Her response of “Ah, Norm,” is one of familiarity: she recognizes the care he’s trying to show her, even if she doesn’t want it. You can even see her resistance to his care on the plate in the next scene: she’s barely touched the breakfast he made before she heads out.

Everything about these interactions suggests a safe, comforting marriage. Apply the lens of critical Minnesotan analysis, and you see a different picture. Marge’s refusal of the eggs matches the standard three-refusal detente, but the fact that she doens’t actually eat them speaks volumes. She cares for Norm deeply—her “Love ya, Norm” is genuine—but Norm is a bit of a galoot, and they’ve clearly been together for a long time. Former high-school classmate Mike Yanagita (Steve Park) confirms they’ve known each other since they were teenagers when he says, “So, you went and married Norm Son-of-a-Gudnerson.” It’s not that she doens’t love Norm, it’s that there’s a part of her—now that she’s pregnant—wondering what she may have missed by settling down in Brainerd. That’s how she ended up in the conversation with Mike Yanagita at the Radisson in the first place.

When Mike cold-calls her late at night after seeing her on TV, it’s immediately after a scene with Marge and Norm watching television in bed. Passed out on her shoulder with his mouth gaped open, Norm is fully back in galoot mode. Marge’s face is blank as she delivers this absolute death blow: “Well, I’m turning in, Norm.” In the moment she’s speaking about turning off the TV and going to sleep. But the sadness creeping across her face suggests something else. It’s a statement of her giving up on their marriage and its suffocating routine. It’s even more devastating when contrasted with the bright smile on her face when she tells Mike over the phone, “It’s great to hear from ya.” Norm’s arm, again, as she’s on the phone, is draped across her midsection as he subconsicously attempts to hold onto her physically and metaphorically.

Norm can tell that Marge is slipping out of his grasp. When she decides to drive down to Minneapolis after seeing the phone records, he’s stunned. His “Oh yeah?” speaks volumes: the Twin Cities, for someone who lives in Brainerd in 1987, are a major cosmopolitan hotspot where you go when you want to leave your small town life behind. It’s almost as if you can see the lyrics to “Streets of Baltimore” running through his head. He’s right to feel worried. Sure, Marge is tracking down a lead, but it’s clear she’s thinking about her phone call with Mike Yanagita—so much so that she’s quick to set up a lunch at the Radisson to meet him. The Blank Check boys picked up on the fact that it’s one of the only times you see her out of uniform, and she’s wearing a full face of makeup to boot. She even primps her hair when she approaches Mike at his booth.

The entire movie hinges on the Mike Yanagita scene. On Blank Check, they discuss it as pivotal for Marge to realize that people are liars, prompting her to reexamine her interview with Jerry Lundegaard. But it’s more than that. The boys do acknowledge that maybe Marge is curious about what else is out there besides her marriage, but they’re also quick to note that Marge firmly establishes boundaries when Mike tries to sit next to her in the booth. That part is pure Minnesota Nice on full display: he knows what he’s doing, she knows what he’s doing, and yet she gives the excuse that she wants him to move back, as it lets her see his face when they’re talking. It’s a way for Mike to save face. Neither has to acknowledge his transgression, and it lets them continue with their conversation, where Mike breaks down and tells Marge about his wife’s death from leukemia. The boundary she sets is a speed bump, not a roadblock.

Of course, he wasn’t married to Linda; he was stalking her. And she’s not dead, either. This all hits Marge like a ton of bricks, but it’s less about experiencing the dark side of man and more about how cold, unflinching, and brutal the world outside of her safe, small-town marriage is. Immediately after her phone call with her friend Valerie, where Marge learns about Mike’s sordid life, the camera cuts to her crestfallen face as she drives around Minneapolis. When she stops at Hardee’s for lunch, she has to shout “Hello?” into the talkbox because no one’s there to promptly and politely take her order. And then, of course, Jerry flees the interview.

Whatever excitement and adventure Marge was seeking, she did not find it. The world outside of Norm is dark, inhospitable, and callous. The more she unravels the kidnapping plot, the darker the world becomes.

If the movie were about murder for money, it would have ended on Marge’s monologue in the car. “There’s more to life than a little money, you know,” she says, summarizing the murder part of the movie. But what’s the “more to life” that she’s referencing? The core of Fargo is Marge searching for that meaning herself, trying to reason if maybe it’s a glamorous life in the cities with a handsome old acquaintance. It’s a line spoken as if she has life figured out, but it’s not until those words come out of her mouth that Marge realizes what life really is to her: it’s the safety and security of her loving, galoot husband and her bigshot job as chief of the Brainerd Police. “And it’s a beautiful day,” she adds, her outlook starting to improve.

The actual ending of the movie is Marge and Norm in bed again. Only this time, when Norm reveals his mallard is going on the three-cent stamp, you see a change in Marge. She’s elated—you can see the pride in her eyes. Norm is disappointed, his rival nailing the placement on the 29-cent stamp. The three-cent stamp, to him, is a consolation prize. But Marge doesn’t care. Norm is already her consolation prize husband, and as she repeats “It’s terrific,” she buries her face into his shoulder, leaning into him and showing him physical affection for the first time in the movie. The roles are now reversed. She’s fine with having a consolation prize husband; after all, what’s wrong with a little bit of comfort in a time of grief and disappointment?

And for a Minnesotan, with their bleak Scandinavian roots, almost everything is bathed in grief and disappointment.

Read

• Fargo screenplay

Have you read it? It’s really good.

Watch

• Fargo

Have you seen it? It’s really good.

Listen

• Blank Check’s Fargo episode

Have you listened? It’s really good.

Consume

• Potato Al Taglio Pizza

I love making The Perfect Loaf’s sourdough al taglio pizza dough. It’s this perfect middle ground between a New York Slice and focaccia. I also love Smitten Kitchen’s Roman-style potato pizza, which is a non-sourdough version. Most of the time, I combine the two recipes, and it looks something like this:

Artwork by Ashley Elander Strandquist. You can view her illustration work here and check out her printing business here.