lorne malvo


There was a fella once running for a train, and he’s carrying a pair of gloves, this man. He drops a glove on the platform, but he doesn’t notice. And then later on, inside the train, he’s sitting by the window and he realizes that he’s just got this one glove left. But the train’s already started pulling out of the station, right? So what does he do? He opens the window and he drops the other glove onto the platform. That way, whoever finds the first glove can just have the pair.


“How can the human eye can see more shades of green than any other color? ‘Cause of predators. Used to be, monkeys we were, right? And in the woods, in the jungle, everything’s green. So in order to not get eaten by panthers and bears and the like, we had to be able to see them, you know, in the grass, and trees and such. Predators” Fargo 1x4: Eating the blame.


“It should be me,” he said. And out of the darkness the wolves came, whispering.

I’d call it animal. Except animals only kill for food.

It wasn’t a question of who, more like what.

He’s not gonna stop. You know that, right? A man like that– Maybe not even a man.

Freeman plays that brutal scene with the heavy breathing and wild countenance it demands, but it’s a rare burst of volume amid his understated facial guitar solo of abjection. Reaction shots have long been his foremost weapon: He pioneered the bemused camera-mugging that John Krasinski rode to a comfortable living Stateside, and his perplexed head-cocks are the Picassos of the form. But on Fargo, he’s reaching a new pinnacle of pitiful.
As Lester, 42-year-old Freeman fidgets like a five-year-old boy and shrugs his shoulders like a 78-year-old war prisoner. He is giving a master class in clenched-lip mouth-squirming. He’s simply the best at being the worst, and watching the walls close in on him is gonna be one heck of a show.