The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo by Stieg Larsson.
Alfred A. Knopf, 2008. 465 pages.
Goodness Gracious, what a kinky, quirky, compelling, dysfunctional, intricately woven Nordic crime series! Or, if Google Translator is to be trusted: Godhet Barmhärtigaste, vad en kinky, udda, spännande, dysfunktionella, intrikat vävt nordiska brott serien!
In The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, waifish-vengeful-tattooed-sexually-ambidextrous-Swedish-hacker Lisbeth Salander and rogue-ish-curious-crusading-sexually-gregarious-Swedish-journalist Mikael Blomvkist join forces to investigate a decades-old crime: the apparent murder of vanished-wealthy- Swedish-great-niece Harriet Vanger. The unlikely sleuthing pair uncover a world of dark Swedish family secrets and dance around in a weird but strangely gratifying post-modern polka-mazurka of courtship.
We very much appreciate the undeniable Swedish chemistry that develops between the two, even when the story takes an unfortunate turn smack-dab into one of BJM’s Big Fiction No-Nos. Hint: there are no talking animals in this one.
Pippi Longstocking? Salander is not your mamma’s Pippi Longstocking. For that matter, Blomvkist is not Astrid Lindgren’s boy-next-door-detective Kalle Blomvkist, either. Back home in Sweden, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo is titled Män Som Hatar Kvinnor— that’s Men Who Hate Women. So angry, so angry. Must read more.
The Girl Who Played with Fire by Stieg Larsson.
Alfred A. Knopf, 2009. 503 pages.
We plunge into The Girl Who Played with Fire, translated from the Swedish Flickan Som Lekte Med Elden. In any language, the title sounds edgy, trashy, and completely mesmerizing, which is how we’re feeling about these books right about now. We can’t stop reading; we’re on the edge of our seats—even when we begin to feel a bit edgy, trashy, and mesmerizing ourselves. It’s reading guilt by association. We also begin to feel a bit pale and pierced and anorexic. Like we’re standing in a darkened doorway of an apartment on the Svartensgatan, whispering, ”Pssst... hey you... yeah, you... get a load of what we’ve been reading (here, we flash open black leather biker jackets with Stieg Larsson books sewn into the linings). We can’t stop reading as Blomvkist pursues a career-defining story, exposing an edgy, trashy, and mesmerizing Eastern European sex trafficking operation. We’re on the edge of our seats as Salander is implicated in the brutal murders of two investigative journalists. We’re flipping pages as fast as we can as Blomvkist vows to clear Salander’s name and to find the true killer. So edgy. So trashy. So completely mesmerizing. Must read more.
The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest by Stieg Larsson.
Alfred A. Knopf, 2010. 563 pages.
In The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest, waifish-vengeful-tattooed-sexually-ambidextrous-Swedish- hacker Lisbeth Salander recovers from a nearly fatal gunshot wound and receives a world of help—unsolicited and solicited—from rogue-ish-curious-crusading-sexually-proficient-Swedish-journalist Mikael Blomvkist as she is further implicated in and exonerated of the aforementioned murders. Blomvkist uncovers long-buried secrets and scandals within the Swedish Secret Service; Salander wields one helluva nail gun in a penultimate warehouse scene. And, in the closing pages, the two seem to renew and redefine their tenuous, strangely touching relationship.
Larsson died an untimely death in 2004 at age 50. So that’s just about all he wrote. All’s well that ends well for Salander and Blomvkist. Or, if Google Translator is to be trusted: alll ärväl som slutar väl för Salander och Blomvkist. But after reading and riding along with Larsson on his edgy, trashy, completely mesmerizing tour de force, we trust no one. And we suspect that it never really ends for Salander and Blomvkist.
The Girl in the Green Glass Mirror by Elizabeth McGregor.
Bantam Books, 2005. 310 Pages
Moving on from the Edgy Swedish Thriller Wing, may we direct your reading attention to our Neglected British Romantic-Suspense Collection. Talented-yet-repressed art appraiser Catherine Sergeant, dumped by a fictional, emotionally-snooty husband, seeks and finds solace in the disturbingly detailed works of non-fictional Victorian artist-cum-madman Richard Dadd. She seeks and finds further solace in the fictional arms of quietly sensitive architect John Brigham. Coincidentally the grandson of Dadd’s asylum attendant, Brigham harbors several of the madman’s undocumented paintings, several sketchy family secrets, and one big health problem. The story is stylish and understated—almost to the point of being subdued—and upon further reflection, ahem, both the Romance and the Suspense are perhaps too painstakingly drawn.
Bantam Books, 2005. 310 Pages
Moving on from the Edgy Swedish Thriller Wing, may we direct your reading attention to our Neglected British Romantic-Suspense Collection. Talented-yet-repressed art appraiser Catherine Sergeant, dumped by a fictional, emotionally-snooty husband, seeks and finds solace in the disturbingly detailed works of non-fictional Victorian artist-cum-madman Richard Dadd. She seeks and finds further solace in the fictional arms of quietly sensitive architect John Brigham. Coincidentally the grandson of Dadd’s asylum attendant, Brigham harbors several of the madman’s undocumented paintings, several sketchy family secrets, and one big health problem. The story is stylish and understated—almost to the point of being subdued—and upon further reflection, ahem, both the Romance and the Suspense are perhaps too painstakingly drawn.
