Stieg Larsson's THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO is a nasty yarn about a journalist who gets sucked into a dense, long-unsolved mystery involving a still-at-large serial killer. It is dour, laden with detail, and more than a little exhausting. Basically, it's the type of preeningly nihilistic trash David Fincher inadvertently spawned with SE7EN and effectively buried with ZODIAC. As a novel and a 2009 film, this material aspired to Fincher-esque; now, thanks in no small part to fifteen million books sold worldwide, it is Fincher. And it's brought out the Nike salesman in him.
Formally accomplished and emotionally detached, Fincher's film slavishly serves Larsson's story - which should delight those who derive satisfaction merely from seeing their favorite book retold in magical moving images. Surface-wise, this is the best possible version of THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO that you will ever see: A-list screenwriter Steven Zaillian has cut-and-pasted the essential elements, Sweden hasn't looked this strikingly desolate since the glory days of Bergman and Nykvist, and Atticus Ross and Trent Reznor have conjured a dire, discordant score that imbues the film with real menace. Most of Fincher's THE SOCIAL NETWORK collaborators re-upped for duty here, which explains why, in many ways, this is the director's most polished work yet. On a purely technical level, this is a perfectly composed piece of cinema performed by a well-rehearsed orchestra.
It's just a shame about the symphony, but that needn't be an issue. Pulp fictions and beach reads have been elevated by master filmmakers on many occasions, and Fincher certainly knows from dressing up ratty material (see PANIC ROOM); it's just a matter of locating a point of entry and reworking the themes from within. From the first moment Rooney Mara skulks into view as asocial computer hacker Lisbeth Salander, it's clear where Fincher's interest lies. Whereas Noomi Rapace's portrayal in the 2009 Swedish adaptation felt like a triumph of wardrobe and hairstyling (and her performances only got worse as the series dragged on), the typically adorable Mara is completely unrecognizable - and wholly credible - as Larsson's abused-by-the-state survivor. Charged with investigating Daniel Craig's disgraced Daniel Blomkvist, Mara's Salander is a wounded animal you both want to protect and stay the hell away from. She's brilliant, and she can generally handle herself - and when she can't, she bides her time and carves her revenge into her adversary's chest. A fantasy in previous incarnations, under Mara's influence Salander finally feels like the symbol of empowerment she was always meant to be.
Up to a point. Given Fincher's faithful approach, he's stuck with Blomkvist as his protagonist - which means the male character's drive to get even with the corrupt billionaire Hans-Erik Wennestrom once again bookends the story. This results in too much backstory at the beginning, and a surfeit of denouement that wraps up right about when the credits should be hitting the MPAA certificate. Blomkvist's preoccupation with Wennestrom is obviously critical to the final scene, but not to this distended degree. There's already enough exposition to deal with once he's hired by Henrik Vanger (Christopher Plummer) to solve the mystery of the brood's dear, disappeared niece Harriet. Why not let Zaillian be the resourceful writer he is and let him dispense with this information in a tidier manner (i.e. have Blomkvist show up at his doorstep bereft of backstory ala Philip Marlowe)?
Of course, one would still have to contend with Larsson's all-caps evocation of the Vanger family's lingering Nazi sickness, which is never integrated in a thematically relevant manner. It's just code for "monster"; they might as well be werewolves (but, hey, at least Fincher gets to swastika a cat!). And then there's the inelegant way in which Blomkvist and Salander are slammed together after participating in two entirely divergent plot lines; it's great when they're brought together (and an absolute joy to watch Mara sexually dominate the reigning James Bond*), but Salander's bisexual identity is never adequately explored. It's just kinda hot that she occasionally fucks a chick. This is especially troubling at the end of Fincher's film, which finds Salander acting like a spurned schoolgirl at the sight of Blomkvist stepping out with another woman. It's meant as a gesture of defiance, but the man is still in the position of power. And so Salander roars off into the darkness dejected, never to be seen again unless this film makes $200 million domestic.
While Fincher has drawn a career-making performance out of Mara, he's also fetishized her to a degree that would make Scottie Ferguson dizzy. When the film hits its third act, and Mara is strutting around in her underwear with a cigarette constantly blazing, one can't help but think of Marla Singer or even Madonna in her video collaborations with Fincher. He's always liked his women trashy, and this is no different. So what to make of Fincher's Salander then? Is this an ode to girl power or just a masturbatory fantasy? Larsson conceived of Lisbeth as a tribute to a woman he did not, in real life, save from being raped - and in every version of the story to date, Salander avenges her rape before partnering up with Blomkvist. But it's only in Fincher's film that she's played for a sap. What gives?
This isn't an act of cruelty; it's just disinterest. As with THE SOCIAL NETWORK (an enjoyable adaptation of a very good Aaron Sorkin screenplay), Fincher feels like an aesthetician for hire on THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO. Yes, his formal precision is unrivaled: every shot contains a dazzling array of information about the characters and the sad, sparse worlds they've built for themselves. But who gives a shit about these characters or their worlds? Not Fincher. Not here. He's still one of the most skilled filmmakers working today, but this is a faint echo of his best work. The greats have always stumbled, but how many had the option of falling back on Nike commercials? It's time for Fincher to decide if he's the next Stanley Kubrick or a corporate stooge.
Faithfully submitted,
