An amorphous cloud of dark, sexually charged imagery writhes onscreen in the opening credits of David Fincher’s The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo. It’s equal parts disconcerting and enthralling—and perfectly emblematic of what’s to come. Based on the first instalment of Stieg Larrson’s bestselling Millenium trilogy (which has already spawned a successful 2009 Swedish film), Fincher’s film struggles to hide its adaptative roots. His urgency to rush us through the first act leaves the unmistakable impression we’re only getting the bare bones of the source material: Mikael Blomkvist. Journalist. In trouble for some reason. Ah, libel. Lost his life savings. Maybe jail. Sleeping with his co-editor. Lisbeth Salander: young private eye. Tech savvy. Detatched. Ward of the state. Reports to a guardian. Violent tendencies. Henrik Vanger: Industrialist. Patriarch of a wealthy family empire. Lives on a wintry private Stockholm island with estranged family members. Vanger has a mission for Blomkvist: solve a 40-year old mystery—the disappearance of his teenage niece Harriet. Every island-dwelling family member is a suspect. As efficiently as the convoluted premise is handled, the set-up feels rushed: Fincher never lingers long enough any of his narrative or emotive punches to land. Now, however, you can unlace your running shoes and settle in for a superbly crafted mystery.
Craig plays Blomkvist reservedly: he becomes a cipher rather than a true protagonist, a mild-mannered reason for the plot to progress. All the better to allow Rooney Mara's thorny Lisbeth to eviscerate very scene she's in. Cold and catlike, the victimised Lisbeth swings like a pendulum from vulnerable to vicious, lashing out purposefully when provoked. She’s largely a one-note character, but it’s a striking note, played violently loud.
After Lisbeth’s narrative is neatly folded into the main thread, the detective duo have their work cut out for them: the clues have gathered decades of dust and the suspects are as frosty as the clime, guilty and innocent alike. As with The Game (1997) and Zodiac (2007) Fincher drapes everyone with suspicion, and repeatedly validates our distrust. Washed out, bleak urban environs and stark blizzards comprise Girl’s Stockholm—fitting for the undercurrent of corruption and sexual sadism woven throughout. The rare sunlit moments come only in sepia-tinted 60s flashback sequences.
The film destroys the audience’s sense of safety early on with an abrupt plunge into darkness—I’m looking at you, harrowing rape scene—and the lingering threat of some further unknown atrocity is everpresent.
A slicker, more sinister production than the original, Girl’s only shortcomings sprout from its pacing. The first acts whirs by, while the third feels shoehorned into an already neatly wrapped mystery. Only a particularly intriguing core could hope to justify such sloppy bookends—fortunately, that’s exactly what Fincher has served up.
