One Paragraph Movie Review: Fargo

One hundred and thirty-ninth film: Fargo. I just… the level of perfection of Frances McDormand’s performance in this movie makes me panic that I could never either describe it properly or be her best friend. As pregnant cop Marge investigating a multiple murder in snowed-under Minnesota, everything — EVERYTHING she does, from crunching through slush, to wistfully biting into an unremarkable breakfast sandwich, to barely noticeably flicking her eyes down to William H. Macy’s mouth when her character thinks his character is lying, is almost criminally sublime. How annoying to act outrageously well near her — as the rest of the cast does — knowing that you might be compared. As an added bonus, my brain-voice will now have a sing-song Minnesota twang to it as it thinks up benign niceties for at least the next two days, yeah jeez. This is a cold, violent, hilarious, charming, desperately spiralling movie and if Marge’s husband Norm doesn’t lovingly fix me some eggs in the morning I think I might die. Five repurposed wood-chippers out of five.