Ah, that Fargo feeling. A chill in the air and in the blood. An assemblage of eccentrics, drawn together by someone’s elaborate criminal scheme. A sense of time and place that does more than provide context, but traps the characters in amber, allowing for dispassionate observation of the fate they’re unable to escape. A shootout between fact and fiction, fake and real, the stories we tell ourselves and the true stories that underlie them. And split screens—lots of split screens.
Last sighted during the opening months of the Trump regime—a regime it anticipated and echoed with its grotesquely greedy modern-day gangster V.M. Varga—and returning now for, god willing, that regime’s final days, Noah Hawley’s Fargo is back, baby. And for a show that has fallen in and out of critical vogue so fast you can feel a slight breeze, it seems blithely unconcerned with being anything but Noah Hawley’s Fargo. It’s a loving tribute to the crime films of Joel and Ethan Coen, writing a melody in their signature key while improvising notes all its own. I’m thrilled to have it back. Aren’t you?
I’m covering Fargo for Decider this season, starting with my review of its fine season premiere.
Tags: decider, fargo, reviews, TV, TV reviews