(Note: Over 500 of my movie reviews are now available in my book "Cut to the Chaise Lounge or I Can't Believe I Swallowed the Remote!" Get it at Amazon.)

Fargo is the kind of movie that appeals to people who have seen a lot of movies because everything is surprising and unexpected. The cop's a woman (Frances McDormand). Pregnant. The perps are psychos of course, but there are three of them and each is a different breed of psycho. William H. Macy is a car salesman who dreams up a scheme to cheat his rich father in law out of a million dollars by getting some degenerates to kidnap his wife. He's a white collar sociopath who always lies whenever his lips are moving unless there is some very good reason to tell the truth. One of the degenerates is a big silent guy (Peter Stormare) who kills people as one squishes bugs. The other (Steve Buscemi) is an ugly little bantam who lies and cheats and kills and steals and whines until finally somebody puts him out of his misery.

This is Fargo, North Dakota, where people are country and it's cold and not very sophisticated. The movie makes gentle fun of the locals while guiding us to identify with them. McDormand eats a whole lot of Hardee's and Arby's and greasy dishes from the cafeteria piled high on her plate. She's eating for two. She loves her husband and he loves her. They lie in bed at night and watch TV. She's the police chief. She meets an old admirer in the big city. He's Asian. She is just curious. He is desperate. She has a self-effacing, aw-sucks, I'm not too bright (but I really am) style reminiscent of Tyne Daly in TV's "Cagey and Lacy" from some years back. Her husband Norm is a big guy who cooks for her and is an artist who paints wildlife. One of his duck paintings becomes a postage stamp. They all say "Yaw" a lot.

The forlorn cold and desolate landscape of North Dakota is a Americana locale not used cinematically since I don't know when-Clint Eastwood's High Plains Drifter (1973), I guess. The script and direction are tidy without being too flashy. Everything is designed to surprise or bemuse the audience. Even the accents. There is the requisite quota of bright red blood; plenty of bullets puncture flesh and split bone. There's some gutter sex and a few shocking sights (one of the perps stuffs the other into a wood chip machine). All in all it's a slick, carefully crafted thriller with an artistic veneer, nicely photographed. It's clear that Coen and Coen have watched the movies of Atom Egoyan, Gus Van Sant, David Lynch, Oliver Stone, etc., and here pay them the sincere compliment of imitation with variation-or is it the other way around?