Thursday, July 15, 2010
HAPPINESS MAY NOT, IN FACT, BE A WARM GUN
Warning: Spoilers lie ahead.1
Joel and Ethan Coen’s Fargo claims, in its opening title card, to be based on a true story — that of a kidnapping-for-ransom scheme gone horribly awry. Except that it’s not. Or in any event, if it is, it is only very loosely based on a story the brothers heard one time that may have actually happened, and they just seized upon the broad strokes of the story and ran with them.
Point being, Fargo, a near-perfect film, is likely 10 times more interesting than the story as it actually, presumably, possibly happened. Such is the Coens’ particular gift as cinematic storytellers: the creation of specific worlds in which specifically rendered characters act and speak in specific ways to achieve very specific ends — and every word ends up on the screen precisely as written. Said gift won them the Oscar for Best Original Screenplay of 1996.2
I had read only yesterday the remark that even the greatest films are in some way flawed, and that’s no less true for Fargo, which, on this most recent viewing, caught my eye with the sort of insignificant detail that ordinarily wouldn’t slip past the Coens’ minute perfectionism.
In a scenario in which cooler heads will not prevail, simply because none are complicit, the mastermind of the abduction — and I use that term loosely — weak-willed car salesman Jerry Lundegaard (William H. Macy), cedes control of the ransom drop to his wealthy and imposing father-in-law, Wade Gustafson (Harve Presnell). Wade doesn’t want Jerry to screw up an exchange involving both Wade’s money and Wade’s daughter; what he doesn’t know is that he’s taking a million dollars to a drop that was only supposed to total $80,000.
Cut to the upper deck of the parking garage, where kidnaper Carl Showalter (Steve Buscemi) is outraged to learn that Jerry has deviated from the plan. When Wade insists that he won’t give Carl the money without first being given his daughter, Carl draws his semiautomatic pistol and shoots Wade in the abdomen.
So furious is Carl that, as he rants about what a bunch of imbeciles the extended Lundegaard-Gustafson clan are, he isn’t paying attention to Wade drawing the revolver from the pocket of his parka. Wade fires, and Carl walks right into the shot, which creases his jawline.
Reflexively, Carl squeezes the trigger of his pistol and fires an errant shot into the Minneapolis night. That’s two.
Now exploding with animal rage, Carl fires another shot into Wade, then five more in rapid succession as he stands over Wade.
According to the Internet Movie Firearms Database3, the movie prop or “non gun” employed by Carl and his accomplice, Gaear Grimsrud (Peter Stormare), is modeled after the SIG-Sauer P220, which generally features a seven- or nine-round magazine. We’re going to assume nine in this case because of the eight shots Carl discharges atop the garage and the one he fires into the parking attendant downstairs.
In particular, though, it’s the last six shots that Carl fires into Wade that grabbed my attention. Because no sooner does the fusillade subside than Carl very deliberately and forcefully — almost as though punctuating the murderous act — shoves the gun in the front waistband of his pants, in effect aiming it directly at his own most precious cargo.
Full disclosure: I’ve never fired a handgun. In my imagination, however, six shots in rapid succession will, to some degree, heat the barrel of the gun to a temperature at least as hot as, say, that of a household iron. Enough to sear human flesh, in other words.
That said, I’ll concede that there are other factors involved here:
1. Carl has just been shot in the face at close range, and it’s conceivable that that pain is pinballing through his neural receptors so violently that he doesn’t even register the heat of the gun next to his nethers.
2. It is well established that it is a bitterly cold winter in Minnesota. Therefore, one might reason that a) Carl is wearing enough layers to protect himself from both the cold weather and the smoking gun; and b) the night air is cold enough to sufficiently cool the barrel of the gun even in the short span between the eighth shot and the tucking of the gun into Carl’s waistband.
3. Although his waistline is not framed in the shot, when Carl first draws his gun, his movement clearly indicates that he is drawing it from his waistband and not the opposite pocket of his unbuttoned coat, which would be much more awkward. Because the waistband is where Carl is accustomed to concealing his weapon, it only makes sense that he would put it back there when he was done with it.
4. Carl, for all of the aforementioned reasons and others I may be overlooking, is no longer thinking rationally but acting on pure animal impulse.
Among my readers, any number of you may be more experienced with and enlightened about the physics and mechanics of handguns — some hasty Googling didn’t turn up the specific answers I was seeking — in which case your comments are welcome.
It is even entirely possible that I, over the course of my estimable cinematic education, have watched hundreds of action movies set in much warmer climates, from which sample possibly dozens of gunmen have thoughtlessly (or perhaps confidently — who’s to say?) tucked smoking guns into their waistbands without my even giving it a second thought. That I should consider the apparent dangers of doing so while witnessing a shootout in snowbound Minneapolis only goes to show that one never knows how or when the next insignificant detail will manifest itself.
In any event, I would favor the shoulder holster myself, especially under a jacket or coat. I’m just sayin’.
1 If, for reasons I cannot even begin to fathom, you have not, in the last 14 years, seen Fargo — which is merely the winner of two Academy Awards, nominated for seven, and one of the very best movies ever made — then I can’t help you. Rent it, then get back to me.
2 Notwithstanding the praise I’ve heaped on the Coens and Fargo in the preceding paragraph, I’d be remiss if I didn’t reassert my longstanding opinion that John Sayles’ Lone Star was the best film and screenplay of 1996. It’s a shame, then, that its only nomination was in the original-screenplay category, and Sayles went home empty-handed.
As long as we’re talking about hardware, though, I will take this opportunity to lavish praise upon the adjective-defying wonder that is Frances McDormand, who deservedly took home the Best Actress prize for her portrayal of seven-months-pregnant Brainerd, Minnesota, police chief Marge Gunderson, one of the warmest, wisest, most indelible characters in movie history.
3 Have I mentioned lately that I love the Internet in all its comprehensive glory?
