Ah, the Millennium Trilogy – otherwise known as The Good, The Bad and the Unbelievably Boring. Well, I say 'Good'; to clarify, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, in which a hack and a hacker take on evil Swedish industrialists (they're neo-Nazis! And serial killers! They're neo-Nazi serial-killers!), is only fractionally more readable than the scriptures of Dan Brown.
But in truth, all of Stieg Larsson's posthumous bestsellers – shaggy dog stories with particular emphasis on the shag – fair groan with the self-same Mogadon exposition and naff throwbacks. Tattooed, bisexual computer hackers kitted out like Camden cybergoths? Seriously, what year is this again, 1995?
Inevitably, this shockingly profitable pulp has spawned some equally successful if wretchedly pedestrian made-for-TV movies, containing some of the most mystifying subtitling in history, and with sequel The Girl Who Played With Fire, a deranged lurch into James Bond-style silliness – "Yes Meester Blomquist, my giant blonde henchman feels no pain, mwahahaha!" Here's the final chapter in which Lisbeth Salander (Noomi Rapace) is recovering in hospital after being turned into a salt shaker by her old man. However, with both the law patiently waiting to arrest her, and her donkey-dumb half-brother Ronald Niedermann (Micke Spreitz) itching to finish her off, Salander's troubles are hardly over.
Meanwhile, that pervy old journo Mikael Blomkvist (Michael Nyqvist), the kind of man who'd pester a damp patch on the wall if it was shaped like a bra, fights to clear her name, before she eventually hauls her tormenters to court. All of which is so life-sappingly drawn-out, the Grim Reaper actually hung around long enough to pop a 'Sorry you were out' card through my letterbox.
This is one final course of Europudding that may leave audiences feeling less satisfied than simply bloated. And a prediction, then: from a purely dramatic point of view, David Fincher's Hollywood remake, starring Rooney Mara and Daniel Craig, will give the material a badly needed kick up the bum. And hopefully reignite the debate: that a purportedly 'feminist' franchise, featuring a kick-ass babe who "sometimes looks 14" and gets breast implants at one point to "improve the quality of her life", doesn't half like to linger over graphic images of raped and murdered females.
Also, a suggestion: how about if movies and novels that exploit pronounced psychiatric illness or carry scenes of violence against women for entertainment purposes donated half their profits to mental health charities or rape crisis centres? Crazy idea, I know.
But in truth, all of Stieg Larsson's posthumous bestsellers – shaggy dog stories with particular emphasis on the shag – fair groan with the self-same Mogadon exposition and naff throwbacks. Tattooed, bisexual computer hackers kitted out like Camden cybergoths? Seriously, what year is this again, 1995?
Inevitably, this shockingly profitable pulp has spawned some equally successful if wretchedly pedestrian made-for-TV movies, containing some of the most mystifying subtitling in history, and with sequel The Girl Who Played With Fire, a deranged lurch into James Bond-style silliness – "Yes Meester Blomquist, my giant blonde henchman feels no pain, mwahahaha!" Here's the final chapter in which Lisbeth Salander (Noomi Rapace) is recovering in hospital after being turned into a salt shaker by her old man. However, with both the law patiently waiting to arrest her, and her donkey-dumb half-brother Ronald Niedermann (Micke Spreitz) itching to finish her off, Salander's troubles are hardly over.
Meanwhile, that pervy old journo Mikael Blomkvist (Michael Nyqvist), the kind of man who'd pester a damp patch on the wall if it was shaped like a bra, fights to clear her name, before she eventually hauls her tormenters to court. All of which is so life-sappingly drawn-out, the Grim Reaper actually hung around long enough to pop a 'Sorry you were out' card through my letterbox.
This is one final course of Europudding that may leave audiences feeling less satisfied than simply bloated. And a prediction, then: from a purely dramatic point of view, David Fincher's Hollywood remake, starring Rooney Mara and Daniel Craig, will give the material a badly needed kick up the bum. And hopefully reignite the debate: that a purportedly 'feminist' franchise, featuring a kick-ass babe who "sometimes looks 14" and gets breast implants at one point to "improve the quality of her life", doesn't half like to linger over graphic images of raped and murdered females.
Also, a suggestion: how about if movies and novels that exploit pronounced psychiatric illness or carry scenes of violence against women for entertainment purposes donated half their profits to mental health charities or rape crisis centres? Crazy idea, I know.