Stieg Larsson's Millennium Trilogy

Interdisciplinary Approaches to Nordic Noir on Page and Screen

S. Peacock, S. Peacock

• Publisher: Palgrave Macmillan
• Year: 2012
• ISBN:
  9780230390447
• Topic: Media & Performing Arts
• Subtopic: Film History & Criticism

Uniquely placed to explore the worldwide phenomenon of Stieg Larsson's Millennium trilogy beginning with The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, the book offers the first full-length study of Larsson's work in both its written and filmed forms.

1

The Larsson Phenomenon: Sales Figures and Sexual Abuse

Barry Forshaw

Stieg Larsson was comfortably the most commercially successful writer of the first decade of the twenty-first century, albeit posthumously. His phenomenal success has been rivalled only by the American Dan Brown.¹ But the late Swedish writer’s achievement is shot through with knotty paradoxes. Was he (as his admirers would have it) a gifted novelist who forged a radical reinvention of the strategies of popular fiction, possessed of a non-pareil gift for narrative? Or was he (as per his detractors) a prolix, inelegant wordsmith, undeserving of the acclaim that came his way after death? Larsson has achieved a position of literary respectability of the sort that has so far evaded his American counterpart. To make sense of the arguments for and against this acclaim, the Larsson phenomenon merits sustained inquiry on a level with Blomkvist and Salander’s own sleuthing.

What follows in this essay is an attempt to map out the topography of key elements in the Larsson phenomenon:² his radical approach to the mechanics of the crime/thriller form (as adumbrated above); his remarkable productivity before his early death (three substantial novels in a trilogy delivered before publication, a virtually unprecedented achievement in the thriller field); the much-discussed nature of his early death; the acrimonious, unresolved familial dispute over his estate; and – most crucially – an examination of the highly contentious sexual underpinnings of his work. The latter elements are the most significant in terms of their value as plot engines, as well as for their passionately avowed feminism (a putative feminism, in fact, which is the source of much discussion concerning the author’s ambiguous approach to his material). Principally, as will be posited and discussed here, it is the author’s presentation of a variety of sexual acts (consensual and otherwise) which is the locus classicus for any understanding of the Millennium trilogy, not least in terms of its sexually abused polymorphous heroine.

Nordic iconoclasm

The Scandinavian countries have long been a breeding ground for iconoclastic, groundbreaking approaches to the arts. Modern drama, for instance, was forged in the uncompromising plays of Henrik Ibsen and August Strindberg, whose stripping bare of layers of psychology was immensely influential on the playwrights of other nations (George Bernard Shaw, for instance), and has virtually become the lingua franca of modern theatre.³ Similarly, artists in other fields from the Nordic countries have often been characterised by a bloodyminded readiness to dispense with the shibboleths dear to earlier generations: the most influential of Nordic composers, Jean Sibelius, for instance. In his Seventh Symphony of 1924, the composer deconstructed conventional symphonic form, creating blocks of sound – virtually inert passages for brass which give way to string ostinati of nervous intensity – the conventional developmental passages that listeners would have been used to virtually absent. Similarly, the Danish Carl Nielsen, in his aggressive Fifth Symphony of 1920– 1922, sets up a titanic battle between his orchestral forces and the manic improvisations of a side drummer (the composer’s instruction is that extempore passages for percussion should halt the progress of the orchestra). The violence of these sections (at least in unbuttoned performances that do justice to the directions of the composer) alternate – as in Sibelius – passages of savagery and intensity with sinuously undulating melodies, with virtually no attempt to integrate the two.

Intriguingly, this musicological model was to be followed by the most successful of all Scandinavian crime and thriller writers, Stieg Larsson, whose orchestration of his literary effects similarly eschews an organic development. Larsson demonstrates a kindred reluctance to integrate expository passages with more kinetic writing designed to raise the pulse of the reader. As with his musical forebears, Larsson creates a destabilising effect in which disparate elements are shoehorned together in a fashion that would have been considered inelegant by earlier generations, but which now seems utterly contemporary. This parallel syndrome has resulted in the fact that Nielsen and Sibelius now seem to be very much more relevant composers to our own fragmented era than more mellifluous musicians such as Grieg. Much Nordic crime writing (notably Stieg Larsson) presents a similarly fragmentary, angular syntax (a challenge for the translator of the texts into English) which grants a unique quality to the narratives. This angularity is reflected within the decidedly non-English structure of some of the Nordic languages, in particular, Danish (perhaps as exemplified in the abrupt octave leaps of that country’s most significant composer, the aforementioned Nielsen).

After the sprawling, patchwork construction of the thriller narrative that Larsson forged, these innovations have become (to some extent) the norm, and other contemporary blockbuster thrillers are beginning to show his influence.⁴

Groundbreaking duo

So, might a case be made for two authors inaugurating a similar shibboleth-shaking upheaval in the field of Scandinavian crime fiction? Alongside considerations of Larsson, we can also usefully refer to the impact and achievements of fellow Swede and crimewriter Henning Mankell. Mankell is best known as the author of a series of novels forming the Wallander mysteries. It is certainly true that Mankell and Larsson performed radical surgery on this rarefied form of popular literature and (like Sibelius and Nielsen) retain an ineluctable position as the twin calling cards for their field, as yet unrivalled in terms of both sales and influence (although, in terms of influence, the Swedish duo of Maj Sjöwall and Per Wahlöö should be noted; the first Scandinavian crime writers, in fact, to achieve international success). The Norwegian writer Jo Nesbø is rapidly gaining ground with such books as The Snowman, to the extent that in late 2011 his publishers were claiming that the author was selling a book every 23 seconds.⁵ And perhaps to the general reader, unaware of the imposing amount of Scandinavian crime fiction written in the late twentieth century (much of it as yet not translated into English), the names of Mankell and Larsson as the two key masters of the Nordic crime novel would occur before any other practitioners in the field sprang to mind.⁶

Avant-Larsson

The Scandinavian invasion of the crime-fiction field has had a striking effect on every aspect of the publishing industry, in terms of sales (which are prodigious, with many publishers scrabbling to find the next influential – or saleable – writer in the field) and critical approval, with most serious newspapers now giving the same kind of informed attention to writing in this popular genre customarily accorded to literary fiction.⁷ In fact, the perceived literary quality of the Scandinavian crime novel is one of the Trojan horses by which a variety of writers made inroads. This was undoubtedly true of Stieg Larsson, but by the time his three posthumous works had attained their current levels of unprecedented popularity, a certain cold-eyed reassessment of Larsson’s abilities was under way – a reassessment, what’s more, which led to a forensic examination of the role of the translator in making this material available to non-Scandinavian readers. This reassessment has had the effect of making many readers appreciate the value of linguistically sensitive translations.

As writers from the Nordic countries began to make commercial inroads in Britain and the United States, the translation process began to be examined thoughtfully (heretofore such endeavours were often invisible, although William Weaver’s celebrated translation of Umberto Eco’s The Name of the Rose was perhaps the first version of a major novel to be considered in terms of its sympathetic translation as much as the achievement of the Italian essayist and novelist). Certainly, the use of language in the field of Scandinavian crime fiction invites considered attention. For Nordic writing, a variety of highly esteemed translators (Don Bartlett, Laurie Thompson, Marlaine Delargy, Charlotte Barslund, Kari Dickson and Sarah Death, among others) are now recognised as contributing immeasurably to the success of the texts that they work on, making decisions that crucially affect the original authors’ choices. This, of course, goes beyond the mere transliteration of the original languages but registers in the apposite choice of phrase which can subtly alter the character of the original prose. Similarly, in terms of a final accumulation of effect, the translator – as much as an editor – may orchestrate elements of the narrative to offer a different experience for the English reader. Larsson translations throughout the world offer very different experiences from the original Swedish version.⁸

One aspect of the popularity of Nordic crime fiction was perhaps a corollary of the search for innovation in the field. The genre frequently seemed moribund in the late 1990s as British and American practitioners relied on recycling familiar elements which were regarded as sure-fire in terms of conditioned reader response, and Nordic crime fiction was perceived as being qualitatively aligned with literary fiction. This gave more ambitious readers the promise of the best of both worlds: the visceral, low excitement of the crime novel combined with a more creative and elegant use of language than is customarily to be found in the commercial field. There was also, to some degree, a concatenation of various trends, both in literature and film (if television is included in the latter category); two simultaneous television series based on Henning Mankell’s signature character, the dour detective Kurt Wallander, had brought the character – and, inter alia, Mankell’s writing – to a whole new audience, and similar work was done by the remarkable Danish television series The Killing (Forbrydelsen, written by Søren Sveistrup), which demonstrated a welcome readiness to sideline the kinetic qualities of British and American cop shows, replacing them with a measured existential tone more akin to European art cinema.⁹

The Killing’s tenacious, humourless policewoman Sarah Lund sported the kind of dysfunctional lifestyle that had heretofore been the province of fictional male coppers, Lynda La Plante’s similarly awkward Jane Tennison aside. But before the Faroe-Island-jumpersporting policewoman became a cult figure (notably in the UK more markedly than in her native Denmark – and certainly before any screenings of the series in America, which showed its customary resistance to subtitled material), a female heroine far more dysfunctional than Sarah Lund had captured the imagination of readers (and subsequently filmgoers via a trilogy of intelligent Swedish films from Henning Mankell’s production company): Stieg Larsson’s uncommunicative punk-goth heroine Lisbeth Salander, the eponymous Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. But there were many antecedents of the latter figure, and the author himself – omnivorous in his reading – utilised a variety of elements to forge his memorable (and damaged)

protagonist. However, most aspects of Larsson’s writing have clear precedents, which the author himself was ready to acknowledge.

Drawing a map

Despite their relative proximity, the individual characters of the Scandinavian countries are markedly pronounced, and enthusiastically (even forcefully) celebrated by their various inhabitants – although a certain wry tolerance is extended to British and American notions of all the Nordic nations as constituting one amorphous mass (something I’ve found when discussing such perceptions with Scandinavian crime-fiction novelists¹⁰). Interestingly, if the latter perceptions are being subtly changed of late, it may well be due to the immense popularity of Scandinavian crime fiction as opposed to any classroom initiatives or the success of literary Nordic writing (which remains more modest: such ‘serious’ writers as Per Petterson enjoy critical encomiums but unspectacular sales). Aficionados of the genre are learning to distinguish between the Norway of Jo Nesbø, the Sweden of Johan Theorin and the Finland of the late Matti Joensuu. As well as affording the pleasures that are comfortably within crime fiction’s customary remit, these authors (and their numerous confrères) have helped realise for readers a complex, nuanced picture of Scandinavian society, with a wide variety of socio-political insights built into the narratives – notably, of course, among the latter a rigorous and sober examination of the European social democratic ideal, an ideal celebrated (until recently) in unquestioning fashion by observers in Britain, America and the rest of Europe, but now under severe strain. The aperçus afforded to readers by such fiction, however, are not freighted into the novels in any straightfaced editorialising fashion on the part of the various Scandinavian writers; such insights (generally speaking) are incorporated within the exigencies of popular crime fiction, whose deepest imperative is to entertain, with societal analysis never subsuming the eternal pleasures of narrative.

German conquests

Speak to any Scandinavian crime author, and you’re likely to hear stories of how commercially successful they are in Germany; sometimes, in fact, more so than in their native countries (such writers as Camilla Läckberg are notable successes in both countries). But by the first decade of the twenty-first century, these idiosyncratic novels were beginning to break into Britain and America, with an index of their growing popularity to be found in the burgeoning newspaper and television coverage (not to mention a new hunger on the part of publishers to corral their own dedicated Scandinavian talent – thereby offering some kind of challenge to the sales of Stieg Larsson, Henning Mankell, and company). Literary agents from the Nordic countries have remarked upon how much easier it is at present to make appointments with British publishers when discussing possible new acquisitions; this is a marked change from the situation as it existed at the turn of the last century, when Nordic authors with barely pronounceable names were considered caviar to the general, and doors remained closed.

Triple appeal

The appeal of such fiction for non-Scandinavian readers is, to some degree, tripartite: there is the intriguing dichotomy between the familiar and unfamiliar which Nordic fiction specifically offers to British readers (along with concomitant identification for the English reader of life in a recognisably unforgiving climate); the radical transformation (and even elimination) of cliché in t...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Contents
• Acknowledgements
• Notes on Contributors
• Introduction: Beginnings and Endings
• 1. The Larsson Phenomenon: Sales Figures and Sexual Abuse
• 2. Old Wine in New Bottles: Tradition and Innovation in Stieg Larsson’s Millennium Trilogy
• 3. Salander in Cyberspace
• 4. Journalism and Compassion: Rewriting an On-Screen Crusader for the Digital Age
• 5. Crossing the Line: Millennium and Wallander On Screen and the Global Stage
• 6. The Girl in the Faroese Jumper: Sarah Lund, Sexual Politics and the Precariousness of Power and Difference
• 7. Storytelling and Justice in The Girl Who Kicked the Hornets’ Nest; Or, In Defence of Inquisitorial Criminal Justice
• 8. Interview Transcripts
• Bibliography
• Filmography/Teleography
• Index