When I think about senseless, inexplicable violence, I remember the character created so brilliantly by Peter Stormare in the Coen brothers’ Fargo. The flat affect. The vacant eyes. The silence.
Remember, Proudfoot did not vouch for him.
And now Mrs. Lundegaard is dead. And those three people in Brainerd.
Look, this guy is just plain nuts. How else can you explain that wood chipper?
This is absolutely not what Jerry Lundegaard intended.
Certainly, Wade Gustafson, Jean Lundegaard’s father, is not to blame. Though I can’t shake the feeling that he contributed somehow to this mess.
And he’s not the only one. There is so much that is cold and desolate in the landscape of Fargo.
And now, with Frances McDormand’s Marge Gunderson, we bring in our own mysterious perpetrator.
We look at him through the rearview mirror, and wonder what it was all for.
Stormare is extraordinary in that scene, and, for a moment, I imagine a flicker of understanding in his expression. And I feel sorry for him.
And here you are, Jared.
And it’s a beautiful day.
I just don’t understand it.