Mark Twain, who knew whereof he spoke, wrote that the difference between the right word and the almost-right word is the difference between the lightning and the lightning-bug.

This is true, and it’s even more so with dialogue.

You can get across what a character would say, and tell your story.

Or you can, every once in a while, nail what a character would say.

Lying awake in the wee hours last night, I happened to find myself thinking of a minor line of dialogue from a great film, that absolutely nailed it. The nuance might have been introduced by the actor. I don’t know. But I prefer to think that the writer/directors, past and future masters of nailed dialogue, had this down in the screenplay.

The movie is FARGO.

And the scene takes place while the two hired kidnappers played by Steve Buscemi and Peter Stormare are driving to their job. The two are recent acquaintances. We will discover that both are cruel men, and stone killers. Buscemi’s character is, however, a lowlife of one kind, and Stormare’s is a lowlife of an entirely different dimension. Honestly. Buscemi’s a killer. Stormare is a reptile, a snake, a guy who barely expends any energy even to interact with others, and only seems to come to life when homicide becomes expedient. Buscemi’s character doesn’t quite know what species of animal he’s dealing with, which will ultimately be, ah, unfortunate for him.

But in those early scenes, it’s just two thugs in a car that’s been stolen for them: Buscemi the motormouth, Stormare the dead-eyed object of his monologues, whose only expression is an occasional offended glare that Buscemi’s character really should pay more attention to. (This is a guy whose only emotion is offense, and you don’t want to give him offense.)

So we get the moment I’m talking about, the one familiar to anyone who’s ever been on a long drive across multiple states, when the driver asks the guy riding shotgun if he has any dining preferences.

Stormare says, “Pancakes. House.”

He could have said, “The Pancake House.” He could have said “A Pancake House.” He could have said “IHOP.” He could have said, “Whatever.”

He could have said, “Waaal, you know what, boss, I got me a hankering for pancakes.”

All, except possibly the last example, would have served the purposes of the story. You would have gotten to the next line and been perfectly satisfied with the narrative.

Instead, he says,

“Pancakes. House.”

Which you learn in a second is the same place they’ve already eaten, earlier that very day.

This is the lightning bolt, folks. Honestly is. It’s the phrasing of a toddler, for one thing, and it’s delivered haltingly, as if this guy is honestly not used to holding up his half of a conversation, even in answer to direct questions. He’s a moron. The sudden offended, dangerous glare he gives the oblivious Buscemi character’s objection to this choice establishes that he is quick to anger for even insignificant causes, and we know, boom, more than we would if he’d erupted with a flurry of profanity, that this guy is a coiled spring. A dangerous moron. (We subsequently learn that his only intelligence is reserved for killing.) You might know that Buscemi’s character is doomed, from that moment.

But it’s “Pancakes. House.” that tells us everything.

Honestly, the difference between the lightning and the lightning bug.

You get a line that on the nose, you have gold.

Tags: Coen Brothers, Fargo, Mark Twain, Movies, Peter Stormare, Steve Buscemi, writing | Category Movies, Mystery, Writing