Alec Nevala-Lee

Thoughts on art, creativity, and the writing life.

Too far to go

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Note: Spoilers follow for the third season of Fargo.

A year and a half ago, I wrote on this blog: “Fargo may turn out to be the most important television series on the air today.” Now that the third season has ended, it feels like a good time to revisit that prediction, which turned out to be sort of right, but not for the reasons that I expected. When I typed those words, cracking the problem of the anthology series felt like the puzzle on which the future of television itself depended. We were witnessing an epochal shift of talent, which is still happening, from movies to the small screen, as big names on both sides of the camera began to realize that the creative opportunities it afforded were in many ways greater than what the studios were prepared to offer. I remain convinced that we’re entering an entertainment landscape in which Hollywood focuses almost exclusively on blockbusters, while dramas and quirky smaller films migrate to cable, or even the networks. The anthology series was the obvious crossover point. It could draw big names for a limited run, it allowed stories to be told over the course of ten tight episodes rather than stretched over twenty or more, it lent itself well to being watched in one huge binge, and it offered viewers the prospect of a definitive conclusion. At its best, it felt like an independent movie given the breathing room and resources of an epic. Fargo, its exemplar, became one of the most fascinating dramas on television in large part because it drew its inspiration from one of the most virtuoso experiments with tone in movie history—a triangulation, established by the original film, between politeness, quiet desperation, and sudden violence. It was a technical trick, but a very good one, and it seemed like a machine that could generate stories forever.

After three seasons, I haven’t changed my mind, even if the show’s underlying formula feels more obvious than before. What I’ve begun to realize about Fargo is that it’s an anthology series that treats each season as a kind of miniature anthology, too, with scenes and entire episodes that stand for nothing but themselves. In the first season, the extended sequence about Oliver Platt’s supermarket magnate was a shaggy dog story that didn’t go anywhere, but now, it’s a matter of strategy. The current season was ostensibly focused on the misfortunes of the Stussey brothers, played with showy brilliance by Ewan McGregor, but it allowed itself so many digressions that the plot became more like a framing device. It opened with a long interrogation scene set in East Germany that was never referenced again, aside from serving as a thematic overture to the whole—although it can’t be an accident that “Stussey” sounds so much like “Stasi.” Later, there was a self-contained flashback episode set in the science fiction and movie worlds of the seventies, including an animated cartoon to dramatize a story by one of the characters, which turned the series into a set of nesting dolls. It often paused to stage the parables told by the loathsome Varga, which were evidently supposed to cast light on the situation, but rarely had anything to do it. After the icy control of the first season and the visual nervousness of the second, the third season threaded the needle by simultaneously disciplining its look and indulging its penchant for odd byways. Each episode was like a film festival of short subjects, some more successful than others, and unified mostly by creator Noah Hawley’s confidence that we would follow him wherever he went.

Mostly, he was right, although his success rate wasn’t perfect, as it hardly could have been expected to be. There’s no question that between Fargo and Legion, Hawley has been responsible for some of the most arresting television of the last few years, but the strain occasionally shows. The storytelling and character development on Legion were never as interesting as its visual experiments, possibly because a show can innovate along only so many parameters at once. And Fargo has been so good at its quirky components—it rarely gives us a scene that isn’t riveting in itself—that it sometimes loses track of the overall effect. Like its inspiration, it positions itself as based on true events, even though it’s totally fictional, and in theory, this frees it up to indulge in loose ends, coincidences, and a lack of conventional climaxes, just like real life. But I’ve never entirely bought this. The show is obsessively stylized and designed, and it never feels like a story that could take place anywhere but in the fictional Coenverse. At times, Hawley seems to want it both ways. The character of Nikki Swango, played by Mary Elizabeth Winstead, is endlessly intriguing, and I give the show credit for carrying her story through to what feels like a real conclusion, rather than using her suffering as an excuse to motivate a male protagonist. But when she’s gratuitously targeted by the show’s villains, only to survive and turn into an avenging angel, it’s exactly what I wanted, but I couldn’t really believe a second of it. It’s just as contrived as any number of storylines on more conventional shows, and although the execution is often spellbinding, it has a way of eliding reasonable objections. When it dispatches Nikki at the end with a standard trick of fate, it feels less like a subversion than the kind of narrative beat that the show has taught us to expect, and by now, it’s dangerously close to a cliché.

This is where the anthology format becomes both a blessing and a curse. By tying off each story after ten episodes, Fargo can allow itself to be wilder and more intense than a show that has to focus on the long game, but it also gets to indulge in problematic storytelling devices that wouldn’t stand up to scrutiny if we had to live with these characters for multiple seasons. Even in its current form, there are troubling patterns. Back in the first season, one of my few complaints revolved around the character of Bill Oswalt, who existed largely to foil the resourceful Molly as she got closer to solving the case. Bill wasn’t a bad guy, and the show took pains to explain the reasons for his skepticism, but their scenes together quickly grew monotonous. They occurred like clockwork, once every episode, and instead of building to something, they were theme and variations, constantly retarding the story rather than advancing it. In the third season, incredibly, Fargo does the same thing, but worse, in the form of Chief Moe Dammik, who exists solely to doubt, undermine, and make fun of our hero, Gloria Burgle, and without the benefit of Bill’s underlying sweetness. Maybe the show avoided humanizing Dammik because it didn’t want to present the same character twice—which doesn’t explain why he had to exist at all. He brought the show to a halt every time he appeared, and his dynamic with Gloria would have seemed lazy even on a network procedural. (And it’s a foil, significantly, that the original Fargo didn’t think was necessary.) Hawley and his collaborators are only human, but so are all writers. And if the anthology format allows them to indulge their strengths while keeping their weaknesses from going too far, that may be the strongest argument for it of all.

Written by nevalalee

June 22, 2017 at 8:45 am

Posted in Television

Tagged with , ,

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