I have always felt very mixed about the Coen Brothers. But the bottom line is that I respect the hell out of them just for sticking to their own original and decidedly non-mainstream vision; all the while managing to keep within a basic Hollywood framework. BUT their new film, Fargo is quite simply brilliant.

It is the best American film in recent years, since Altman's The Player (I was not a fan of Mr. Altman's Short Cuts, and as for the recent efforts of Mr. Scorcese, sure, they were elegant and fun, but not original in the sense we're talking here). What about Pulp Fiction? Well, Mr. Tarantino's razzle-dazzle pyrotechnics were pretty stunning, but they were also totally surface. The pleasures of Fargo are deeper, more subtle and more ambitious. What seems for most of its running time to be an immensely enjoyable black comedy, by the final fade shapes up to be a disturbingly accurate, and yet strangely touching vision of American culture.

Based on a true story, Fargo concerns itself with a wimpy and financially desperate car salesman, Jerry Lundegaard (William H.Macy, in an amazing performance) who hires two thugs (the wonderfully bizarre Steve Buscemi and the great Bergman actor Peter Stomare -- now there's an inspired pairing) to kidnap his own wife in order to collect ransom from his very wealthy father-in-law (Harve Presnell).

Suffice it to say, things go very wrong and several people are killed. Enter Marge Gunderson (the extraordinary Frances McDormand), the super competent and very pregnant police chief who solves the case with a mesmerizing blend of disarming straight-forwardness and hilarious eccentricity. But alas, not before the body count rises. This is, after all, the Coen brothers.

That's the story, but it's hardly the film. The film is a surprisingly poetic blend of contradicting tonalities held in masterful balance by director Joel Coen. There is the slightly surreal surface mosaic of Mid-West life -- comprised of weirdly gorgeous and banal iconographic images of ducks, vast landscapes of snow, a giant statue of Paul Bunyon, fast food, T.V. soaps, and the vapid smiles of the locals. An essential part of this veneer, and a source of great humor, are the accents and speech patterns of the locals. But the skimcoat is ripped open on a regular basis by bursts of extreme and realistic violence. Scratch the cover of these seemingly normal and infuriatingly pleasant folk and, underneath, they are desperate and driven, or lonely, or just plain crazy. It is a telling vision of the American hinterland, far removed from the urbanism of Tarantino, Altman or Scorcese (on which we've been recently o.d.-ing), and all the more disturbing for that reason.

Only one couple -- Marge and her slightly pathetic, wildlife painting husband, Norm (John Carroll Lynch) -- achieve a centered and genuinely heartfelt love amidst the madness -- despite the fact that they seem to be the most eccentric of the bunch. It is to Fargo's great credit and a key to its fundamental design, that this eccentricity is NEVER condescended to by the filmmakers. That lack of condescension, strikingly reminiscent of early Mike Leigh (Grownups), make for a final scene that is surprisingly fitting, cathartic and, dare I say it, sublime.

In all ways -- direction, script, cinematography and particularly performances -- I cannot praise Fargo enough. Joel and Ethan: I salute you.