Fargo

This past year (so this little story is out of time sequence) I decided I wanted to watch FARGO, the new TV series on FX. I knew it would be stretching the limits a bit, but I wanted to see what they were going to do with the story and the cast looked GREAT.

Plus, I can now watch things late at night because my dear friend, Dawn, had given me a set of TV EARS, which, while not the most comfortable thing I’ve ever had stuck in my ears, certainly do what they are supposed to do.

Well, it’s violent. Something my mother has grown more accustomed to as we have watched an ever growing variety of programs. The first really violent program was PERSON OF INTEREST. Since it’s a computer thing, and I do computer things, I really wanted to see it. Thursday nights. I recorded it and we watched it time delayed about an hour.

After it (PERSON OF INTEREST, I’ll get back to FARGO in a minute) was over, my mother said, “It’s violent.” No surprise, but I had liked it and wanted to see more.

Next week, recorded it again and watched it time delayed, after which my mother said, “Well, it’s violent”, at which point I decided that it would get added to my list of late night programs.

Week three came and it recorded. I was looking for something on the list of recorded stuff to watch and my mother said, “What about PERSON OF INTEREST?”

I was a bit surprised and responded, “You said it was violent.”

To which she replied, “It is, but it’s very good.” It has since become one of her favorites, although we are not happy that they killed off the nice police detective.

So, FARGO is violent. Very violent. More violent than PERSON OF INTEREST, and less funny. I wasn’t sure if my mother was going to stick with it, but, oddly enough, it actually became the first program where we watched TWO episodes in a row; a veritable BINGE WATCHING of the show for my mother.

In this one episode, the main character has gone out to the big house of the widow whose husband was killed in the first episode while having sex with a prostitute,  which we got to see. The stabbing to death, while having sex with the prostitute, pinning the poor girl under his body, with his blood running down all over her.

It’s violent. And it has (for American TV) fairly explicit depictions of sex, a new category of concern for me as I pick programs to watch.

So, there he is, out at the house, explaining about the insurance policy. It turns out, the husband has stopped paying the premium, which the wife doesn’t know. He’s supposed to tell her, but he’s basically a wimp and doesn’t want to tell her this unfortunate news. So he dithers.

She, the widow, reaches the conclusion that the apparent delay in the process of the policy could be … hmm… helped along… if she offered a bit of … encouragement.

The next scene is them upstairs, her on her hands and knees, dress hiked up around her waist, him behind her, banging the bitch for all he can get.

The depictions of sex on American TV have gotten more explicit than when I was a child. There was a commercial, for MITCHUM DEODORANT.  It showed this handsome guy, in bed. He would sit up, and the sheets would slide down showing his bare chest. He would say, “I didn’t use my deodorant yesterday, and I may not today.” You can see the commercial here.

My mother would then sputter, “MMHHUMP! I don’t need a naked man in my living room.”

So there I sit, watching an unscrupulous insurance salesman, who has murdered his wife, give it doggy style to a widow whose policy expired because her dead husband didn’t pay the premium, with my mother sitting beside me.

It was like one of those noses that you can’t NOT look at. Or a zit right in the middle of someone’s forehead. Or spinach in someone’s teeth as they talk to you. It was all I could do to NOT turn and look at her.

Waiting. Waiting to hear what she would say about THIS, given that a shirtless man advertising deodorant was enough to set her off for my entire childhood.

And… Nothing.

Next week we record FARGO and start to watch. The widow is in the insurance company office with her two sons, the insurance salesman, and the insurance salesman’s boss. She is demanding action on payment of the policy. The boss explains that her dead husband, murdered while having sex with a prostitute, had stopped paying the premiums. There will be no payment.

The situation slowly sinks in. Her face goes through a few interesting contortions (she’s a good actress, Kate Walsh). She turns to the insurance salesman and screams, “I LET YOU CUM INSIDE ME!”

My mother, a good Catholic woman, is no fool. Her mind is sharp. Her hearing is all too good. There is NO HOPE that she just missed that, or doesn’t understand what it means.

I sit. Waiting. Dreading what she might say.

Nothing. She says, nothing.

Until the commercial break, at which point she says, “It’s a good thing your father is dead.”