Note: this is the sixth in a series of chronological reviews of the Coen brothers filmography.

Throughout their careers, the Coen brothers have been consistently fascinated by film noir. This is apparent in their early work like Blood Simple, and it became particularly overt in 2001’s The Man Who Wasn’t There, but never has it been so enigmatic as with Fargo.

Noir as a genre is traditionally set in exotic, metropolitan locations like L.A., Chicago, or New York; Fargo, however, can best be understood as an attempt to reconcile noir’s traditions with the experiences the Coens had growing up in northern Minnesota. The result is a cynical crime flick set against the warm hospitality of the Midwest, which gives Fargo an emotional center that’s lacking in most noir (as crime fiction goes, it’s much more Raymond Chandler than Jim Thompson)—not to mention most of the Coens’ earlier work. If it weren’t for the hugely successful No Country for Old Men, Fargo would undeniably be the definitive film of their career.

What’s particularly notable about Fargo, however, is the stark visual style they’ve employed. The acrobatic camerawork of their previous films is gone, replaced by wide angles and bleak overhead shots. Fargo, in many ways, could accurately be described as an anti-noir: instead of the angular, black-saturated canvas that the noir masters of old employed, the Coens have chosen to fill every possible inch of the screen with white (using the sparse, snowy Minnesota landscape to great effect), which combines seamlessly with Carter Burwell’s haunting, string-heavy score to create an atmosphere of total, incomprehensible isolation. Instead of claustrophobic shadows, we get huge expanses of nothingness. It’s a stylistic gamble, and it pays off in spades.

Story-wise the film functions primarily as a fatalist tragedy; a heist gone wrong. William H. Macy stars as Jerry Lundegaard, a used car salesman living under the thumb of his father-in-law and boss (Harve Pressnell). He’s been engaging in some illegal and ill-advised financial dabblings, and is now hard-pressed for money. In desperation—or spite—he hires a couple of thugs (Steve Buscemi and Peter Stormare) to kidnap his wife, collect a ransom from his father-in-law, and split it with him fifty-fifty.

Everything’s going well enough until Marge Gunderson (an Oscar-winning Frances McDormand), the very pregnant chief of police, finds the kidnappers’ trail and begins to give chase. Herein lies the source of tension in the film, as Marge, who is both a brilliant cop and a devoted wife—a little bit on the white bread side, of course, but clearly a true feminist figure (sorry, Lara Croft)—goes head-to-head against the corruption of the central characters. The Coens are simultaneously parodying the people of their home state and paying homage to them—it feels mocking at times (how many “you betcha”s can we take?), but they clearly have a genuine affection for the characters—something that’s missing in many of their other films.

There are numerous scenes (read: pretty much all of them) in Fargo where you won’t know whether to laugh or cry, and this is fundamental to the film’s brilliance (the jury is still out, I think, on whether this one is a drama or a comedy—a controversy the Coens almost certainly intended). Fargo is a honest picture of pure human corruption contrasted with a caricature of pure human goodness. There is deep truth in every moment in this film—and how you respond probably says more about you than it does about the action or the characters. You may laugh all the way through this film, and you might find your heart torn in two; the only thing that’s certain is that you won’t ever see yourself the same way again. Towards the end, Marge muses on the carnage she’s witnessed, and simply concludes, “I just don’t understand it.” That such a simple line can ring so true is proof not only that McDormand earned every bit of that Oscar, but that the Coens are tapping into something deeply human.

The film ends on a particularly ambiguous note, which, depending on your point of view, is either somewhat redemptive or entirely hopeless. This is appropriate enough, given what an ambiguous film Fargo is. This is the rare Coen brothers picture where you’re encouraged to draw your own conclusions—and indeed, there is much truth to be mined from this film. Just expect it to haunt you long after viewing it.