A memorable scene for me:
Stormare's pre-syllabic typhoon of a hit-man has just laid out a diorama of nastiness along a remote North Dakotan road - an overturned car, an abandoned police cruiser, three bodies full of bullets. An impressive mess. The violence fades to black and we wake up in the bed room of our pregnant heroine, Marge Gundersen. She has married a hobbyist. Paintings, canvases, taxidermy. Lonely violin strains, a gentle slice of the score, usher us to dawn. It's the contrast that moves me, the hard splice of gunfire against the soft quiet of home.