Note: This entry of Lessons in Capitalism contains opinions that have been reconsidered since the initial writing of the entry that are related to the reason for this series move to the main blog.
Readers of DoWntime may be familiar with Sam Maleski’s massively influential piece “Is the future all girl?” Steven Moffat, gender, and privilege. In the piece, Maleski uses Hawley’s television series Legion as a contrast to Moffat’s portrayal of the failures of masculinity, but Fargo likewise acts as an exploration of masculinity. From Lester Nygaard’s embracing of toxic masculinity to get ahead in the insurance business while using and abusing numerous women to Lou Solverson’s inability to accept any shape of masculinity that isn’t the two-fisted soldier ultimately being one of the many factors leading to Ed Blumquist’s untimely death.
And there are retuns to familiar themes. For example, near the end of the episode, Thurman Smutny has the ill-gotten funds he needs to pay off his debt to Loy Cannon. The scene where Smutny sits across from Cannon is bereft with tension. Not just because the money was stolen from one of Cannon’s establishments, but also because of the aura Cannon projects to Smutny. It’s not just that he gets the money he was owed and Smutney’s meek assurance that everything is there, he has to show the working class mortician that he’s the big dog.
There’s no reason why such a projection is necessary. However, to get big in the game of capitalism (and the inextricably related game of crime), you have to project yourself as bigger than you are. From Donald Trump plastering the side of his buildings with his name in giant gold letters to Jordan Belford’s larger than life persona. The point of being a man of means is to show off you have means, be it a big house or a big dick. But the second it looks like you don’t, no matter how insignificant the other person is, the house of cards tumbles. Which makes the non-ending cliffhanger all the more full of tension.
But with season 4, we also see new angels on the matter. For starters, we have the actual first scene with Josto. In a turn from the traditional image of a mobster getting laid, we are presented with the Italian mob boss having sex with serial killer Oraetta Mayflower wherein she acts as a dom. While there’s nothing there as explicit as Sunstone, within the context of masculinity in Fargo, what’s notable is that it’s Oraetta who acts as the Dom to Josto’s sub and also tops him.
While in public, Josto presents a dominating persona (albeit one that’s not fully working as demonstrated by the chair he sits on being just too large for him), in private he embraces his sub status. However, when neighborhood kid Ethelrida Smutney sees him at Mayflower’s apartment, he immediately bails. It’s not that she saw them having sex, but rather the potential of someone finding out that his noticeable neck marks are from the hands of a woman topping him might end up hurting his standing in the criminal empire he’s inherited.
His brother, when faced with the threat of castration via bullet, immediately lashes out at the first man who suggests that it’s ok. He physically attacks the man and has to be slightly restrained before he can murder him. Instead, he goes outside only to have to deal with Dick Wickware. Wickware, being both a racist cop and a Mormon, doesn’t need to threaten a man with his fists. Instead, the power play he provides to the Italian is that of a story.
Stories in Fargo are extremely important. We’ve spent ten chapters exploring the implications of stories and True Stories™ back during our coverage of season 3. But Wickware’s story is that of the Italians coming to Utah and being faced with a lynching. There’s no evidence that Wickware has that either Gaetano or the man he’s with are doing anything illegal beyond being in the area of a crime den. For all he knew, these were just some hired goons rather than major players in the Kansas City Italian Mob. Dick just saw two Italians and feels the need to show that he can kill them if he so pleases and the law would be on his side.
And then there’s the grim reaper. Now, Fargo isn’t a show that has been unafraid of embracing the less than realistic. However, previous examples have not been as malevolent as the Grim Reaper. At most, they have been either benign figures with a cosmic sense of justice or not really given two shits about the pesky humans of the dust ball. But the grim reaper is different. He actively stalks our characters, be it the visibly sick Swanee Capps or the perfectly healthy Ethelrida.
Even his appearance strikes a contrast with what’s come before. Gone is the sleek design of the UFO and the fatherly serenity of Ray Weise. In its place is a corpse. A thing washed up from the ocean, nose long since lost to the currents. Its skin decays with the unnatural paleness of the dead. Its clothing drenched in water and seaweed. It oozes out of the bathtub, gliding across the room while the terrified Zelmare Roulette can do nothing but shut her eyes and pray it doesn’t take her true love.
It has been haunting the season since the beginning. It stood in the streets, hands outstretched as the serial killer watched her pray. Its motivations are unknown to us. Its presence, however, remains blunt: Death is a White Man. And he will take us all in time.
Fargo, at this time, has yet to provide a vision of masculinity that’s better than Steven Moffat’s various takes. Thus far, its vision of good men are beset with crippling flaws and insecurities of masculinity. Take, for example, the final scene of the episode. There Thurman informs his wife, Dibrell, that he accepted the money stolen by Zelmare and Swanee to pay off the debts he owed Loy. Dibrell is none too pleased by this turn of events. When he tries to explain himself, Thurman throws out the traditional masculine explanation of having to do the bad thing for his family. It was either that or have the mob hang over their heads for the rest of their lives.
In the end, he didn’t want to appear to be weaker to the world. He wanted to be a man, especially since she got them in debt in the first place… so he says. Dibrell, instead of embracing her husband for what he’s done, storms out. Because being a good man isn’t simply having the aesthetics of protecting a family. It’s actually respecting those close to you enough to talk to them about returning stolen money as if it wasn’t stolen in the first place. Instead, he decided to be a man. And it may cost his family in the long run…
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