There are now three versions of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, a cold case mystery that
introduces the character of Lisbeth Salander, crack researcher, expert hacker,
stoic goth loner abused by father figures and bureaucracy. She’s quite the
character, but the story she’s trapped in isn’t worthy of her. First told by
author Stieg Larsson in a wordy piece of pulpy fiction, then adapted into a
lifeless transcription of a film in Sweden, the material has landed in
Hollywood hands. Director David Fincher, with Se7en, Panic Room, and Zodiac,
has more than proved that he knows his way around a thriller. Now he’s made
what might be the best possible version of Dragon
Tattoo. That’s not to say it’s good, necessarily, but it's compelling. He can’t quite overcome
the shallow, overcooked, and problematic nature of the story, but he gives it
his best shot.
The bare bones of the plot are probably familiar by now,
even for those who have yet to experience them, simply because of the story’s
cultural presence. For those who’ve yet to hear, Girl with the Dragon Tattoo is the story of a disgraced journalist
(Daniel Craig) who is hired by an elderly industry titan (Christopher Plummer)
to help write his memoirs as a cover for reopening a decades-old case of a
missing girl. It’s actually a terrific variation on the locked room murder
mystery at its core. The man and his relatives all work for the family company
and all live on the same little Swedish island which is accessible from the
mainland only by a single bridge. Forty years ago, his grandniece vanished
without a trace during a company picnic that happened to be on the day a car
wreck left the bridge impassable.
He concludes that a member of the family is to blame, but in
all this time hasn’t been able to figure it out for himself. That’s why
journalist Mikael Blomkvist rides into town to pour over the details the old
man has compiled over the decades. It’s a complicated task, especially since
many of the suspects still lurk about the island. After all, this is a family
that counts at least two former Nazis amongst their ranks, not to mention
alcoholics, mysterious recluses, and anti-social grudge-holders, characters
with all kinds of signs that point towards danger. Blomkvist decides to hire a
research assistant and that’s when the tattooed girl roars into the picture.
We’ve met Lisbeth already, though. We’ve seen some of her
sordid backstory, been introduced to her pierced face, inked body, and her
stare of vacant intensity. In the Swedish version, the role went to Noomi
Rapace who was so good, it’s a shame the films couldn’t match her. Here, she’s
played by Rooney Mara, the girl who dumps Zuckerberg in the opening scene of
Fincher’s Social Network. She’s not
quite as good as Rapace, but that’s a tall order isn’t it? She certainly looks and
sounds the part, a boyish young woman, an emaciated pale punk with wild hair, furrowed brow
and flat affect. That she doesn’t much resemble the real Mara represents only a
commitment to the optics of the role. That she makes it work dramatically to
the extent that she does is what makes her performance somewhat noteworthy.
This very well could become the kind of role like James Bond or Hamlet that can
more than survive recasting.
Working from an adaptation penned by Steven Zaillian,
Fincher finds room to put his own personal stamp on the material. (And I’m not
just talking about the great inky black semi-abstract opening credits that play
out like the coolest Bond credits never made). There’s still Larsson’s messy
anti-misogyny message, but Fincher adds to it his love of observing processes
and his love of the physical acts of investigation and technology. Here’s a
movie about a cold case in which the mystery will be solved by typing,
scribbling notes, scanning photographs, sticking tacks in maps, flipping
through dusty old albums, and pouring over archived company records. Add to
that characters who are constantly getting on trains, roaring around on
motorcycles and in cars, lighting up cigarettes, getting dressed and undressed,
buying supplies, and looking about fidgeting with nervousness. Fincher shoots
such actions with a crisp, energetic monotone montage creating a film that
exudes style with every shot. The simmering electronic-infused score from Trent
Reznor and Atticus Ross sizzles underneath the scenes, pushing forward the chilly
imagery of Jeff Cronenweth’s cinematography that seems to capture both the ice
in the wintry setting and within the characters dark, cynical hearts.
There’s a real cinematic liveliness to the film that the
Swedish version could never match. The griminess of the original source
material remains, however. A particularly horrifying rape scene that played out
with disgusting detachment in the first film adaptation is nearly handled better
here. Salander is attacked and thrown about. The door closes. The screen cuts
to black. I breathed a sigh of relief that was cut short when Fincher brings us
back inside the room for just one more look. It’s the material’s most
problematic moment for me. The scene’s an unseemly, unnecessary lingering on
sexual violence in what is otherwise awfully cheap, standard mystery stuff.
Sure, Larsson wanted to make a point. After all, the original Swedish title is Men Who Hate Women. But here, an
otherwise strong, complicated character is brutally victimized not just by an uncomplicated
attacker, but by the very story she’s trapped in. Fincher does what he can with
it, but it’s still majorly problematic.
It’s to Fincher’s credit that this story, which I’m getting
quite bored with by now, still held my attention. There are some very smart
changes that he and Zaillian made to the material that improved the viewing
experience, streamlining both the mystery and the emotional payoffs, such as
they are. What I enjoyed best were the unexpected little flourishes of detail,
especially in the lengthy climax that begins in a serial killer’s secret kill
room wherein, stocked amongst the weapons of death and torture, one can find a
bottle of Purell and an Enya album. The conclusion continues with a propulsive
and satisfying (if oddly out-of-place) sequence of financial revenge I found
myself thinking of as the “Lisbeth Salander: International Woman of Mystery”
television pilot. Hey, a guy can dream, can’t he? She’s such a fascinating
character that I’d love to see her put to use in a plot that’s less familiar, constricting
and punishing.
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