A large part of why the Coen brothers attract such a visceral response to their movies is that their stories tend to be most compelling in their telling, rather than in their pursuit of concrete themes and messages. The blend of abstract symbolism and juxtapositions that seem meaningful in a way that you can’t quite put your finger on is the source of this allure: you’re drawn into the moment-to-moment drama or humor while the apparent significance of the story itself remains just out of reach.
While True Grit may offer a moment where the significance or general feeling seems to hit you all at once (maybe I’m the only one this happened for but I stand by it), Fargo is different; it seems to hinge on the juxtaposition between its two principal characters, played to performative perfection by William H. Macy and Frances McDormand. They’re slight caricatures, but only slight—just like the story is purportedly “based on a true story,” but only in the loosest definition of these terms. They’re both so odd and unlike any other screen character in history, creating a sense of place purely with their speech but also with their approaches to ethics. The main takeaway I’m always left with when I watch Fargo is the way each scene could function as a short film, and when strung together, it’s easy to see why the movie is still so highly praised almost twenty years after its release.
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