Two Dragons:
A Comparison of Fincher's and Oplev's Versions of "The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo"
A Comparison of Fincher's and Oplev's Versions of "The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo"
Two questions
have haunted David Fincher’s much-anticipated American version of The
Girl With the Dragon Tattoo: will it be worth the wait? and is
there really a reason to make it in the first place?Well, now that it is
here, it’s safe to say that the answer to the first is that it most definitely
was worth the wait: it is a relentlessly dark movie about relentlessly dark
people with mysterious and dark histories. And it is brilliant. As to the
second question, which begs the notion of whether Fincher could add anything
new to the visualization that the 2009 Swedish version did not (other than a
far greater budget), I was willing to bet that America’s greatest stylist could
manage to make it his own in some sort of way. And I think I’d
win that bet also.
Fincher’s take
on the first book of Stieg Larsson’s Millennium Trilogy turns out to be
less Se7en and more Zodiac, not so much the
thriller as the pulsating, slowing unwinding, inexorable mystery, which is
exactly what Larsson’s book, with its vast complexities of financial
malfeasance, familial discord, and cryptic clues, is in the first place. The
director begins, as the book and the Swedish film both do, by presenting the
acute reason for trying to unravel a cold case now 40 years old, the arrival of
a birthday gift. What follows this brief moment is a title sequence, over Karen
O’s cover of “Immigrant Song,” that is surreal and haunting and rather
frightening as it sets up some of the uglier backstory in enigmatic, Rorschach
images. Once free of this nightmare, though, Fincher moves somewhat more
conventionally.
Using a palette
of white and gray and light gray and dark gray and several other shades of
gray, (to which he generously adds some sepia when he moves indoors) Fincher
shows us a part of Sweden trapped in a never-ending frozen state that one
character not too inaccurately calls “the North Pole.” Niels Arden Oplev,
director of the Swedish film, opted for a less restrictive palette, even
allowing (gasp) sunshine to penetrate his Hedeby Island. Not so Fincher, whose
island is in a snowstorm when Mikael Blomkvist (Daniel Craig) arrives at the
behest of the patriarch of the powerful Vanger family, Henrik Vanger
(Christopher Plummer) to try to solve the mystery of his niece’s disappearance forty
years ago and it never seems to stop. The one notable exception to the dull
color scheme is the bright, modern sharpness of the home of the Martin Vanger,
the missing girl's brother, and Fincher has his own ironic reasons for that
choice. The otherwise ubiquitous dull gray is reflected in the life that the
Vangers are living, shut up on what might once have been their island retreat
but now has become more of a prison: practically none of them likes any of the
others and no one speaks to anyone else, the perfect self-punishment for what
Henrik calls “the most detestable collection of people that you will ever
meet.” It also reflects the painstaking search for the answers here. They do
not swoop in conveniently: they are pieced together slowly from old photographs
and opaque diary entries and decades-old hotel receipts. This is real investigative
journalism, even if it is aided by a tech whiz with access to anything she
wants.
Plummer does
what he can with an undemanding role, and Stellan Skarsgård shines as one of
the members of the Vanger clan, but Craig’s performance is revelatory. In every
film he is in we see his strength as well as his vulnerability, and both are at
play here. Blomkvist comes to Hedeby on the heels of a trumped-up libel
conviction, and in Craig’s face and eyes can be read his character’s
ambivalence about whether he even goes on writing. While Michael Nyqvist
portrays this character well in the Swedish film, his performance remains oddly
distant from the viewer: we do not get a chance to live inside of Blomkvist’s
mind as we watch him go through his difficulties (which include attempts on his
life). The result is something that we can believe and appreciate and even
enjoy, but that does not seem complete. Craig’s far more emotional,
more vulnerable performance gives us that intimacy. When he has been shot, the
audience can feel the pain of the wound. When he realizes—too late—that he has
made a terrible mistake, it only takes a glance at a knife to show us the
horror he is feeling.
The biggest
question going into this film, of course, was whether Rooney Mara’s performance
as emotionally damaged hacker extraordinaire Lisbeth Salander could be anywhere
near as strong and memorable as the already-iconic one created by Noomi Rapace
in the Swedish version. The answer, with no offense to Rapace, is absolutely
yes, but it is complicated. The two actresses and their directors create the
character in very different ways. Rapace, who allows more of the natural
feminine of her face to remain visible and unshadowed, for all of her smallness
and thinness stays distinctly female throughout the film. Even in the most
horrific scene (in both films), the rape and revenge sequence with her
“guardian,” she manages a small feminine smile as she finishes her revenge
telling him not to move or what she is doing to him “won’t look nice.” Her
vulnerability comes from being a young woman in a man’s world, a woman who has
been hurt many, many times by many, many men. When she gives herself to
Blomkvist in one scene, it is a brief, entirely sexual encounter, over the
second it is complete.
In contrast,
Mara hides more of her face in shadow through the angles in which she turns her
body, behind her forbidding piercings, and (most notably) behind an
ever-morphing head of hair that either pulls attention away or covers part of
it intentionally, leaving herself more unknown, more of a mystery. She is a
riddle: her clothing gives nothing at all away of gender; her lifestyle gives
nothing away of the genius she possesses. The only part of Mara’s Lisbeth that
lives on the surface is her anger. It is always right there, waiting to
explode. Mara’s Lisbeth is a wild animal keeping herself in line by sheer
strength of will. She has developed a tremendous capacity for compartmentalization;
otherwise she would certainly be institutionalized. It is never clearer than in
the revenge scene. Rapace’s Lisbeth cannot wait to zap her assailant with a
stun gun; Mara’s has a plan and will carry it out as dispassionately as
possible…until she gets him trussed and vulnerable, the way he had
her. Then she can let the animal loose. And no sweet tones in her voice
when she tells him not to move or it won’t look good. She practically hisses
it.
Nonetheless,
within a few scenes, she’s in bed with a woman. And within not too many more
scenes, she’s in bed with Blomkvist. Compartmentalizing: it has become as
natural to her as her photographic memory or her hacking skills. It helps her
survive. It can be argued that Rapace shows this capacity too, but not to this
extent. And that is one of the defining distinctions between the
characterizations. Another is the sheer urgency of
Mara’s characterization, as well as her clear vulnerability, which comes out in
many places during the film. Mara’s Lisbeth is vulnerable for a different
reason than Rapace’s though: she has methodically destroyed the feminine within
her unless she wants it there, so now she is vulnerable because she is the
unwanted. What she has made herself into is exactly what society does not want.
Both actresses are small and thin, though each shows herself capable of putting
up a good fight, and it seems clear after watching both of them that whicheverhad
come first would have been seen as the archetype for the character.
I’ve read
reviews online that find fault with Fincher for his use of the book’s final
chapters (which bring to a conclusion the convoluted and fairly arcane
financial matters that got Blomkvist into trouble at the book’s start), which
Oplev’s version merely glossed over. But, although it does seem a bit of an
anticlimax, I won’t fault him for this. I’d rather fault Oplev for cutting the
entire relationship between Blomkvist and his partner at Millennium magazine,
Erika Berger (Robin Wright), an error that caused no end of havoc in the
subsequent films of the series. I might question a pretty significant
alteration to the ending that readers of the book with notice right away and
wonder why Fincher felt it necessary. (Oplev managed it.) But the bottom
line is that this big budget American version of the Swedish popular novel is
well worth seeing, whether or not you’ve seen the Swedish version. Here's
hoping audiences reward Fincher's effort so that we can see what he does with
the considerably less confining storyline of the second novel.
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