Being, seemingly, one of only two people across the globe who disliked Steig Larsson’s trilogy, I didn’t flock to see David Fincher’s screen adaptation. In part, there are certain plot points in the novel that just drive me a bit nuts, particularly the incredible progression of Blumquist’s discovery of a woman whose honeymoon fortuitously took place during the same week that Harriet was murdered (thus providing photographic evidence); the random appearance of Blumquist’s daughter, who conveniently wonders, “What’s with the Biblical names on your desk?”; and the unbelievably implausible and overly complex ruse executed by an improbable number of employees toward the end of the novel.
Fincher only omits the third of these events, which is still a bit annoying, particularly since screenwriter Steven Zaillian adroitly weaves the multiple narratives together that felt so bulky in the novel, but overall, his adaptation – and remake of the decent 2009 Swedish version – successfully imagines a blue-gray-slate-tinted world of deception and evil. The Sweden backdrop is cold, desolate, and casts a pall of isolation. As Blomkvist’s car moves up Henrik Vanger’s (Christopher Plummer) drive, the screen is flushed white and the house is camouflaged in the winter weather. Parallel rows of towering, black lampposts mark the path but conjure the image of a prison, one that is vacuous and apparent but adopted as part of everyday life.
This eeriness persists throughout the film and keeps the audience both riveted and tense. There are very few slow moments, and, despite some complaints that the film runs too long, I found it one of the faster moving two-hour-plus movies. This is due in part to the consistently pithy dialog and flashbacks woven seamlessly under Vanger’s narration. There is no need for lengthy ruminations. The novel spends a fair amount of time setting scenes with unnecessary description and circuitous dialog. The film remedies this by avoiding the overly-expository dialog and focusing on showing the audience the familial and personal separation between characters. We learn about them from their actions, not their monologues – except toward the end when the ultimate villain must confess his motivation – but this is necessary in that, well, he’s a villain, and he must monologue to buy the protagonist time. The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, above all, is still a detective film, so some tropes are hard to avoid.
Daniel Craig is a solid choice for Mikhail Blomkvist. He can be stoic and cold with an air of intelligence. In a sense, he’s kind of an anti-hero. He’s not totally likable, but he’s not supposed to be. He’s flawed, and he represents that conflict between “truth” and “news.” Simply, “news” sells; “truth” is what happens. This depiction of Blomkvist speaks to another of this film’s successes: it flushes out the often overly-convoluted murkiness of the novel and puts the focus on the disparity between police and journalists. In general, both are trusted at their word. At the same time, the journalist reports what he’s been told without the burden of “truth,” something that gets Blomkvist into trouble at the very beginning of the film. He’s charged with libel and both his reputation and that of his magazine, Millennium, plummet to cavernous lows.
Most notably, Rooney Mara is perfectly cast as Lisbeth Salander. The look is accurate – as is Noomi Racpace’s in 2009 – but Rooney’s depiction is cold and removed. Her “throes of passion” are reduced to personal pleasure, and each line is delivered in an appropriate monotone that suggests a touch of Asperger’s. Her movements are similar. Her gestures are simple and unanimated as if she knows her body is simply utilitarian to get from A to B. Her strength is her apparently eidetic and photographic memory. Salander is a computer, a tool, a resource, and Rooney’s depiction conveys this. At the same time, there is a resilient strength in each movement and word that transforms Salander from a disturbed emo-woman to a cunning, meticulous badass. She’s the best modern incarnation of female superhero – without the superhero part. Like Blomkvist, it’s difficult to know whether we should root for her or against her. Some of her actions are out of revenge; others gratitude; some, whim. Regardless, Mara is a treat to watch. It’s unclear whether Fincher will direct the final two installments of Larsson’s trilogy, but the inclusion of Mara will provide each one with a cursory reason to watch.
Historically, Fincher has shied away from sequels; at the same time, it would be unfortunate if Fincher’s style and aesthetic were wasted by handing this trilogy over to another director. Certainly, others are capable, but history proves inconsistent when directors change mid-series. Sure, Alien had a good run to three – and, incidentally, Fincher directed the third – as did 28 Days Later in its transition from Boyle to Fresnadillo, but recent series like X-Men, the 1990’s Batman, anything Hannibal Lecter-based after Silence of the Lambs, and Mission Impossible until the most recent installment suggest that a new director is synonymous with a weaker script and flatter characters.
