"Lie Still. I've never done this before. There will be blood."
An eyebrow raising line of dialogue delivered in a no-nonsense, staccato fashion, by the titualar Girl to a man who hates women. If this statement is taken as a comment on David Fincher doing an American adaptation of Stieg Larsson's insanely popular novel, it is kind of a lie on both counts. Lisbeth Salander has indeed done this before (in print of course, and also on celluloid in Swedish), and between Seven and Zodiac, and The Social Network so has David Fincher - and as the latter goes, much better. Having recently watched both Chinatown and Vertigo, any hope for a richly textured and nuanced modern noir, a building of something more than plotting and franchise building, was dashed after the end credits pop up.
With the MGM Lion mutely roaring and a swanky abstract credit sequence (think H.P. Lovecraft bathed in liquid crude) you might be tempted to think of the Hollywood production of The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo as some sort of grim James Bond in purgatory. Daniel Craig in the lead, sporting the finest in European apparel only underscores this; at this point in human history, a smart phone and a macbook petty much make us all super-spies. Hell, that credit sequence probably cost more than the entire Swedish film trilogy. Given the money and thin subject material, David Fincher (who, let's face it, can do this stuff in his sleep at this point) serves a mighty exercise in craft that amounts to little in the way of depth, rather serving as one-for-them-one-for-me stylistic experimentation. A lot of sound and fury, signifying nothing. That is not to say that Dragon Tattoo is Fincher's Oceans 12, but it is at least his Solaris.
The central murder-mystery featuring rich Swedish eccentrics, The private Vanger clan who cluster on their their own private island, but never talk to one another. The corporate tycoons, Nazi shut-ins, and a serial killers of women here seems to provide little more than a truculent back-drop for the wannabe relationship between the titular cyber-punk gal - make no mistake, Rooney Mara is equally as convincing as Noomi Rapace - and disgraced journalist, Mikael Blomkvist who spend their time doing the nuts and bolts of investigation. The dialogue is fast and perfunctory, a oneupmanship with the Shakespeare-on-speed delivery in The Social Network. The sound design is assaultive and occasionally abstract with Trent Reznor's score calling attention to itself, often. Despite the momentum of everything thing, Daniel Craig still offers new levels of vacant staring and mumbly line deliveries. He may have the lion-share of screen time, but it's Mara's Lisbeth Salandar that drives film more than anything. But lets be crystal clear: That they fuck is far more important than whether or not they solve the mystery of a wealthy patriarch's missing niece and a dozen or more murdered women. That they form a lasting intimate relationship seems to be the primary goal of an otherwise needlessly protracted denouement. Needless until you realize that Lisbeth's pining for Blomkvist and a relationship of some kind is what the story is really about, the rest filler. Keeping this in mind, Lisbeth is only 7 years older than Blomkvist's daughter, a point lost on the screenplay (or on the cutting room floor) as the daughter in the film only to provide a silly Bible clue (Eureka!) and then is discarded in favour of Blomkvist fucking his boss (Robin Wright Penn) at his convenience.
Protracted character introductions consist of vaguely engaging corporate and media shenanigans around Mikael Blomkvist (serendipity alert: News of the World phone tapping is treated without the slightest whiff of interest or scandal) and Lisbeth's emotional/sexual issues with her previous and new government handlers (there will be anal blood, fair warning) and corporate bosses. The characters, either the main ones, or the plethora of single-scene supporting characters, for all the films exposition, never feel like people with sustainable histories. But hell, everything is handsome on screen - like those flowers matted in glass frames that come as birthday presents to mock and taunt the elder Vanger. Lisbeth's angry "Fuck-you You Fucking Fuck" T-Shirt sporting hacker comes the closest, if only because she has some semblance of emotional longings (her knack for drug-fueled Gothic lesbian sex notwithstanding). Just when you think the character may be getting somewhere, there is the niggling in the back of the brain that this whole thing is just sexist wish fulfillment. Longings or not, Lisbeth seems primarily to exist to either offer her brains and skill to help Blomkvist, or have sex with him, or bail him out of a tight spot, or patch him up if he is bleeding. If she still comes across like more of a person it is because of her angsty posturing exists as a funhouse mirror of his disinterest in her other than as a tool. She's a lip-pierced, bleached 'browed Marvel superhero who can rock a blonde wig, and hide her tats when necessary, to embezzle billions of dollars in offshore accounts while sipping a latte.
Maybe being only skin deep is perhaps the goal. To thrust fans and novitiates of The Millennium Trilogy into a lurid movie-land of super-journos, super-hackers and vague boogeymen with basement torture chambers that might make Patrick Bateman wince. Tattoo's Swedish Psycho is so ill essayed (not the actors fault, this particular thespian is magnificent, as always) as to be almost completely irrelevant. It's about the sex, not the crime. Speaking of American Psycho, Tattoo does have some expertly executed set-pieces, including one structured around Enya's "Orinoco Flow" that is certainly the films "Sussudio" moment. Equally impressive is a scuffle in a subway station involving an escalator and duffle bag and a shitload of loud foley work. It's a showcase of the directors penchant for terse, boiled-down-to-the-essence on screen action. Mercifully, Fincher doesn't feel the need to flash grotesque photos of slaughtered women every 10 minutes, as was the case with Niels Arden Oplev's 2009 version of the film. He handles all the research through laptops photo galleries, Google, corporate libraries and police archives with, well, the panache of someone who already made the far superior Zodiac. The movie is assembled with fragments of fragments, not just the scenes, but the expertise of the director. I am assuming this is by design as it will most likely delight readers (and enthusiasts of auteur theory) who can unconsciously fill in the banks. It is made explicitly visual in how curiosity (or simply bad luck?) killed the cat, arguably - and curiously - the film's most gristly image. The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo strings you along for 2 and a half hours dressed in the finest of cinematic and production design frippery, but has the lasting spiritual enrichment of one of Lisbeth's ubiquitous Happy Meals or 30 second Ramen.
I suppose than, that these mega bestselling book-to-film franchises are not going to direct themselves, and we have got two more novels/films to go that demand A-level craftsmen and acting talent. Hopefully, Mr. Fincher has had his fill of shooting classical and modern Swedish architecture and isn't going to spend his time farting around with this material any further. Once was enough, with or without blood.