The Man Who Left Too Soon: The Life and Works of Stieg Larsson (30 page)

The final film – the adaptation of
The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets’ Nest
, by the same director as the second movie – is perhaps a disappointment after its predecessors. The first two films accommodated Larsson’s somewhat prolix plotting by utilising brisk cutting and condensing the narrative strands, but here Daniel Alfredson seems to feel that the tortuous plot, and much of the dialogue, needs to be given its head – and that is not to the film’s advantage in terms of pacing. The tautness of the first film is undoubtedly dissipated. Nevertheless, it’s a solid adaptation that does justice to the resolution of Lisbeth’s story – even if the knitting together of elements in the finale seems a touch abrupt. In some ways, the last of the
Millennium Trilogy
adaptations is reminiscent of another of the successes of the production company responsible, Sweden’s Yellow Bird: the original Henning Mankell
Wallander
television series. There is the same low-key, reined-in playing by the cast, resolutely non-tourist venue location shooting, and the steady accretion of facts and information through which the narrative unfolds (in contrast to the more straightforward, in-your-face style of most American television series and movies). Of course, this aspect of the film most clearly reveals its origins as a Swedish television series, but it is none the worse for that; the reverse, in fact, as it is a refreshing antidote to the hyper-dramatic, unsubtle style of most contemporary thrillers.

As in the previous films in the sequence, the necessary telescoping of events and characters to whittle things down to an acceptable screen running length is done with intelligence and skill, and even has the effect (as in the adroit adaptation of the first book) of lending the plot – almost by accident – a greater level of plausibility. And in the same way in which Mikael Blomkvist’s unlikely list of sexual conquests is reduced to a more persuasive number in the first movie, another credibility-challenging element is finessed at the beginning of the film of
The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets’ Nest
: although the severely injured, groggy Lisbeth, lying bandaged in her hospital bed after the removal of a bullet from her head, is made aware that her murderous father is in the same hospital, the nocturnal prowlings by Zalachenko are removed. Although, of course, readers of the books will be surprised by this change – one among many – however intelligent the motivation behind it. Similarly, the business of the poison pen e-mails received by a worried Erika Berger has been altered – the immense complexity of the original plot may have been profitably simplified here once again, but it is to the credit of the filmmakers that they have been bold enough to take this initiative.

The film of
The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets’ Nest
, of course, boasts two James Bond-style villains, who are more reminiscent of their literary, and cinematic, antecedents when portrayed on the screen by actors than they are on the printed page. Lisbeth’s grotesquely mutilated father, for instance, given to sinister Blofeldian laughter in order to convey his malign nature, and the implacable, superhuman giant Niedermann, whose body count in this final entry virtually goes off the scale. We see – briefly – several of Niedermann’s luckless, often bound victims as he is en route to his objective, his half-sister – and the fact that we are not shown their subsequent murders is chillingly effective. But – as those who know the novel are aware – Zalachenko is speedily (and bloodily) dispatched when he becomes a thorn in the side of the rogue secret service agents in Swedish intelligence who have been protecting him. And while the hulking Niedermann once again presents problems of plausibility, he is a useful element in a narrative that proceeds at a much more stop-and-start pace than its two predecessors. After the court case in which Lisbeth is finally exonerated (a lengthy sequence handled, incidentally, with real skill), her hulking half-brother is still around for a satisfyingly violent confrontation, a characteristically pulse-raising sequence that audiences perhaps need after the statelier pace of the courtroom drama. Director Daniel Alfredson resists the temptation to show us Niedermann’s death – at the hands of vengeful bikers rather than Lisbeth, although his feet have been nail-gunned to the floor by his half-sister – keeping it as information we merely hear reported briefly. If this isn’t particularly cathartic for the viewer, it’s still dramatically effective.

Even more than in the previous films in the trilogy, the talented Noomi Rapace (who moved on to the second Guy Ritchie/Robert Downey Jr Sherlock Holmes movie after this, playing the part of a gypsy) is obliged to convey acres of meaning while constantly maintaining an inexpressive, masklike face – and the fact that she does so with such understated force is characteristic of the actress’s skill. A particular pleasure is watching her struggle with the natural, human impulse to thank people who deserve her thanks – especially Blomkvist and his sister, Annika Giannini, who handles Lisbeth’s defence with little help from her client – this is clearly torture for the undemonstrative Salander. And Lisbeth’s striding into the courtroom in full-on Goth gear, with gelled hair, outrageous make-up and chains, rather than a more courtroom-friendly suit, is a lovely Boudicca-into-battle moment. (Even with her future freedom on the line, Lisbeth remains ineluctably more fuck-you than conciliatory.)

If the final encounter between Lisbeth and Blomkvist after the case has been won lacks the touching quality of its original literary template, and has no real valedictory feel, unlike the moving end of the third book, it is nevertheless handled with understanding and nuance. Perhaps audiences expecting a more dramatic or affecting conclusion to the film trilogy will have reservations, but once again the adaptation – largely speaking and with some important caveats – does justice to the original.

It’s hardly surprising that even in France and Sweden (the initial marketplaces for the three
Millennium
films), the Hollywood dream casting game has been played by cinema-goers. For the inevitable forthcoming Hollywood remake, a slew of names were initially evoked: Natalie Portman, Kristen Stewart and Ellen Page for Lisbeth, and (for Blomkvist) George Clooney and Brad Pitt – although both actors invariably figure in such speculative casting. In fact, Daniel Craig, on sabbatical from James Bond after the financial woes of the MGM studio put the franchise on hold, looks set to be the first English-speaking Blomkvist in David Fincher’s adaptation, with the hitherto little-known Rooney Mara taking on the role of Lisbeth.

Hollywood remakes of European films are usually ill-advised, stripping out and siphoning off all the crucial elements that made the properties so successful in the first place. It’s to be hoped that Hollywood breaks this trend when it finally gets round to the novels of Stieg Larsson.

THE GIRL WHO IS LISBETH: NOOMI RAPACE

When Noomi Rapace landed the much sought-after part of Lisbeth Salander, she had everything to lose. The Swedish actress was well aware of the astonishing success of the books in her own country when she auditioned – and was equally aware of the fact that many readers had a strong mental image of Larsson’s difficult, uncommunicative heroine. She knew that you had to be at the top of your game to meet these very high audience expectations – and not just for a local Scandinavian audience, but for the worldwide market that these films (originally made for television) would almost certainly reach. But the youthful actress had another problem: how to play what is essentially an impossible character? In the books, Lisbeth is a bizarre conglomeration of disparate, unrealistic elements, and her creator’s mastery lay in his ability to make the reader believe in this unlikely elfin figure who is nevertheless capable of extreme violence. That Noomi Rapace has also made her a believable character – and has done so with such consummate success – has not only consolidated the appeal of the trilogy of Swedish films, but has offered her the possibility of a stellar career abroad. Her first post-Lisbeth, English-language undertaking was a signing for the sequel to the first Guy Ritchie/Robert Downey Jr Sherlock Holmes film – and a more striking contrast of milieu to the
Millennium
films couldn’t be imagined.

Director Niels Arden Oplev, to whom was granted the task of bringing the Larsson trilogy to the screen, knew full well that the casting of the principal female character was absolutely central to the enterprise, and became quickly convinced that in Rapace he had hired the right person. But the director initially had to be persuaded, so fraught was the casting process when it came to Lisbeth. Oplev was seeking an actress who would have the deepest possible relationship with the character, someone who worked along the lines of total identification espoused (initially) by the master Russian acting coach Stanislavsky and later by the ‘method’ school of acting, as popularised by Lee Strasberg’s Actors’ Studio in New York. This complete immersion in the character – both physically and psychologically – was something that Rapace took on board with dedication (it was her own chosen approach to the acting process) – and the result in all three films is some of the most strikingly authentic acting in modern cinema.

Oplev first interviewed Noomi Rapace in 2007. She had acquired a considerable reputation in several serious Swedish films as well as making a mark in a variety of theatre productions, but the director was not persuaded by this impressive track record at the start, and thought that Rapace looked too feminine and attractive – hardly the appropriate appearance for the in-your-face, tattooed, black leather-wearing Salander. But the actress was aware that the part was one to be fought for (and, if necessary, suffered for) – not only offering a challenge for an ambitious performer such as herself, but also presenting a career-making opportunity that would be second to none. She made it clear to the director that she was prepared to make all the physical and psychological changes necessary to be persuasive in this difficult part, and began a rigorous diet, cutting out virtually everything but protein – and, as she realised, possibly creating health problems for herself in the future. The parallels with the reckless Salander, whose lifestyle is hardly a healthy one, were obvious. At the same time, Rapace adopted a regime of extreme physical exercise, attempting to give her body a lean, boyish appearance with the merest suggestion of subcutaneous fat – and in this transformation, as the films’ occasional nude scenes demonstrate, she succeeded all too well. Punishing martial arts were also part of the actress’s training, notably kickboxing and Thai boxing. Her natural aptitude in this area gave her the confidence to tell the director that she did not want him to rely on stunt doubles, and that she was keen to tackle the sheer physicality of the role. Other physical necessities for the part included the ability to ride a motorbike – a skill that is crucial to the action sequences in the films – so Rapace also worked on obtaining her licence.

Her physical commitments, however, extended beyond making her body shape more androgynous. She had her hair cut short and undertook genuine piercings, eschewing the cosmetic simulacra of such things that were offered to her initially.

All this physical immersion in the role paid off handsomely in terms of creating a startling look for Salander, but of far greater importance was the inner life that the actress was to bring to her character. Rapace has stated that she perfectly understood the rebellious, anti-establishment stance of Larsson’s heroine, which has echoes in the actress’s own turbulent teenage years. But it is the edgy, distrustful core of Salander that Rapace portrays with such absolute understanding. And the actress realises that the humanity and vulnerability of the character – elements that Lisbeth does her best to repress – must be displayed to the audience, but with subtlety. We may at times look at Lisbeth with the same dismay as the sympathetic characters around her, but we must always be able to locate the human, caring part of her psyche – the part that only a few of the characters (Blomkvist, his lawyer sister Annika, Salander’s sometime-lover Miriam Wu) are able to access. It is a measure of the actress’s success that she is able to synthesise all these elements in a totally persuasive fashion – largely deprived, what is more, of one of the key elements in an actor’s armoury: dialogue. Unlike in the books, where frequently we are party to Lisbeth’s thoughts, it is left to an often silent Rapace to convey the inner conflicts of her character. We find ourselves studying the most minute flicker of facial expression to ‘read’ her feelings – and Rapace is particularly adept at the moments where common human feeling dictates that she thank someone who has helped her – but she cannot break through the sociopathic barriers she has built around herself. For Noomi Rapace, Lisbeth Salander is a hard act to follow.

MILLENNIUM MUSIC: JACOB GROTH

A key element in the Larsson films is the music – the edgy, nervous scores. Jacob Groth is an admirer of Bernard Herrmann, the composer who provided the perfect marriage of music and image in the films of Alfred Hitchcock. So, in suspense terms, the Danish composer had a true master to emulate when scoring
The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, The Girl Who Played with Fire
and
The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets’ Nest.
But Groth is no stranger to challenges when it comes to scoring films. Five times an Emmy Award-winner, and a nominee on a further occasion, he has established himself as a film composer of great authority. His music communicates a subtle atmosphere, mostly downplaying orchestral bravura and maximising an effective Nordic restraint. Like Tim Burton’s house composer Danny Elfman, Groth has a background in rock music. Originally a guitarist, he began some 25 years ago to fine-tune his talents as a composer on Danish movies, and in the 1990s he made his debut as a composer for television. His big break came with
Taxa
, a long-running success on Scandinavian TV, but his chef d’oeuvre – and the calling card for his international reputation – was his score for
The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo
, which was nominated in the ‘best score’ category by the European Film Academy in 2009.