The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo
Written by Stieg Larsson
Translated by Reg Keeland
Every mainstream reviewer seems to love this novel. It’s an international bestseller that’s spawned two sequels and has already been made into a movie. All this despite the fact that the author is dead and Swedish. My reaction, however, was “meh.” Other than the Swedish names that I can’t pronounce, there’s nothing in this book that sets it apart from any typical crime thriller.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s not a terrible novel. The mystery at the heart of the story is well-crafted, and I didn’t notice any glaring plot holes. The pacing is brisk, except for a few lengthy discussions of Swedish finance. The translation from the original Swedish produced a few awkward lines, but nothing memorably ridiculous.
But much of the novel’s appeal depends on whether the reader identifies with the main character, Mikael Blomkvist. As shameless Mary Sues go, Blomkvist could give Superman a run for his money. Blomkvist is a middle-aged, left-leaning journalist and magazine editor, just like Stieg Larsson. He also happens to be one of those courageous and brilliant journalists who’s dedicated to THE TRUTH. And he’s irresistible to the ladies without even trying (I’m not joking about that last part, he gets as much play as James Bond per film). Perhaps if I were a middle-aged Swedish journalist, I might find Blomkvist appealing. As it is, he’s somebody else’s empowerment fantasy, and I just feel left out.
Although Blomkvist is the protagonist, the titular girl with the dragon tattoo is Lisbeth Salander, an anti-social hacker who helps Blomkvist solve the big mystery. The inspiration for Salander is rather odd. According to a longtime friend, Larsson admitted that as a teenager he failed to intervene when he witnessed a woman being gang-raped. So the character of Salander was supposed to be his attempt at redemption, and the writer’s redemption came from the character’s rape-revenge narrative. (Spoiler Alert!) Midway into the novel Salander is orally and anally raped by her legal guardian. Salander eventually gets a fitting revenge, but the novel never spends much time on her reactions or development. Despite his desire for redemption, Larsson is always more interested in the trials and tribulations of his thinly drawn author-avatar. The plot focuses on Blomkvist and the big mystery, Salander becomes his sidekick and eventually his lover, and the rape-revenge storyline ends up being much more exploitative than Larsson probably intended.
The entire novel, in fact, seems like an effort to have a sexy violence cake and eat it too. On the surface, the novel takes the uncontroversial stance that raping women is bad. But this is still a crime thriller, and the genre requires a certain amount of depravity. The numerous instances of sexualized violence are not simply elements of the story, they’re the driving force behind the plot and the novel’s most notable feature (besides the unpronounceable Swedish names). I’d go so far as to say that the sexualized violence is one of the novel’s main selling points. The forbidden thrill of sexual violence can be secretly and safely indulged so long as it’s coupled to the condemnation of the same sexual violence.
But I’d be lying if I said the sexualized violence actually offended me. Mostly, I was just bored. This novel is not some glorious, genre-busting breakthrough. It’s nothing more and nothing less than competent pulp, Scandinavian style.
The thing that got to me was the clunky prose. It was like a the editor Babel Fished the original and copy-edited the results armed only with an old copy of Strunk & White and tall pot of coffee.
oops… dropped the “a.” A tall pot of coffee. It never fails. Make fun of an editor and you’re bound to reveal your own poor editing skills.
I recently tried reading The Girl Who Played with Fire (second part of the trilogy) and couldn’t get past page 200. What an incredibly boring and blandly written/translated sequel (my wife who has higher tolerance for these things informs me that it does get better towards the end). I don’t read many airport novels but I think the sequel might actually be worse than the Da Vinci Code. Definitely an instance of skip the book and watch the movie I think. I’m swearing off these things for another 10 years…
Thank you for that; I was wondering. I was sort of intrigued but skeptical because it sounded like it would probably be — exactly what you said it is. Middle-aged journalist romances hot, edgy, and damaged young thing. Can’t get enough of that, oh no.
I actually gave in and bought the Da Vinci Code several years ago, and although I never talked myself into reading it, the owning of it still makes me feel somehow diminished. There is only so much degradation one curmudgeonly slattern can bear.
I’m willing to forgive clunky prose in a translated work as long as it’s comprehensible. But there are definitely some weird touches, like the constant use of the word “anon.” Is that a Swedish thing?
Suat- it’s hard for me to believe that “The Girl Who Played with Fire” could be worse than the “Da Vinci Code.” That was one of the few books that I couldn’t force myself to finish.
Kinukitty- yeah, there must be some critical mass of men who fantasize about “healing” damaged, anti-social girls with their love. It’s like “Twilight” for middle-aged men.
I’ve only seen the movie, which is pretty accurately described by Richard’s review of the book, but Lisabeth is the one who’s in control of the relationship with the journalist (also a middle aged fantasy, I guess). Isn’t this book really popular with women, though? At least, in my experience, only women friends have read it. I see Lisabeth as a sort of Man with No Name character — she doesn’t talk about her pain or feelings and no amount of abuse really damages her; she always wins.
In the novel The Girl With the DragonTatto,
How did Mikael’s daughter know that the numbers in Harriet’s address book were Bible verses?
How did Harriet know about that?
Why did she put those names and numbers in her address book?
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Richard Cook says:
…there must be some critical mass of men who fantasize about “healing” damaged, anti-social girls with their love. It’s like “Twilight” for middle-aged men.
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Just as there’s a critical mass of women who fantasize about “healing” damaged, anti-social males — drunken, irresponsible “bad boy” womanizers — with their love. And turning them into caring, supportive, domesticated hubbies.
It’s like “reality” for plenty of women.