January 10, 2012

The Girl With the
Dragon Tattoo (2011)

January 10, 2012 / Movies (Horror) / Leave a Comment

Jan 10 2012

Zombos Says: Excellent

The revelation of the serial killer in The Girl With the Dragon Tatoo brings with it the most chilling line delivered onscreen since Silence of the Lambs‘ Chianti and Fava beans culinary mashup: a starker revelation that being a victim is one part maniacal killer, two parts victim’s mistake. When it’s added up, demoralizing insult is heaped on potential injury for journalist Mikeal Blomkvist (Daniel Craig) in this strong R-rated mystery.

Because it is a mystery you will need to pay attention. This is the second time I was asked for an explanation of a film’s story in the theater’s men’s room after the film. “You saw Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, right?” “Yes.” “What the hell happened?”

The labrynthine investigation of Henrik Vanger’s (Christopher Plummer) family tree and the living and dead closet skeletons inhabiting the island, where relatives avoid each each, can be vexing enough, but the story is not only about them: it’s about Blomkvist being successfully sued by a financial predator he was investigating; it’s about that girl who likes tattoos and hacking into people’s personal lives, Lisbeth Salander (Rooney Mara, who looks a lot like her name sounds). She’s preyed upon by a social worker who can’t keep his pants zippered; then there’s a 40 year-old disappearance, complicated by more Nazi-skeletons rattling in that closet and a serial killer who may still be active.

I could go into detail, but it’s better to watch it unfold. Just stay alert. It becomes dicey when Lisbeth teams up with Blomkvist. She did a very thorough background check on him. He knows about it. She was so good at it he figures she’d be a perfect assistant. She can’t seem to keep her pants zippered when he’s around, so he reluctantly lets her investigate that, too. The movie’s a hot roll in moist bedsheets. It’s a study in predator types. It’s a downbeat, whitewashed landscape of cold days and nights, and dangerous revelations. It’s also a puzzle involving not only the pieces but how they’re fitted into place, one by one, and the unsavory picture those pieces create. Craig doesn’t muscle-up his Blomkvist and Mara doesn’t muscle-down her Lisbeth. The roles stay brittle: they get beat up, they get even. Lisbeth is a lot better at getting even.

She’s one victim who knows how to exact revenge that’s also economically rewarding. My guess is this is the part that capped the confusion the guy in the theater’s men’s room had. It’s a little drama after the stage’s main event has played out, so it’s natural to drop your attention a notch at this point. Don’t. It’s even more fun to watch Lisbeth play with her mice. I’d wager if Lisbeth made it into a Bond movie she’d better play Bond’s sister. Otherwise he’s going to get his ass kicked but good.

Comic Book Review: Fatale 1
Tentacles and Tommy Guns

Zombos Says: Very Good

Noir and Lovecraft seem to go together like Victorian and Gothic; all dark tones and hardboiled moods that lead to bruised knuckles and bloodied bodies dumped in greasy alleys or sprawled across attic stairs or gasping out last breadths while some hellspawn squishes close by.

Ed Brubaker's direct, terse words and indirect, terse characters capture crime noir's rythm of lightly brushed cymbals and pensive bass strumming, and Sean Phillips panels his landscape morosely, filling it with dark places and brooding recesses, hiding mystery in every corner. Colors provide faint contrast, but Dave Stewart knows to leave well enough alone and highlights the shadows by ignoring the light. This is crime noir. There's little light in crime noir, even during the day. Which works just dandy because there's little light in horror, too.

No creeping tentacles here. Yet. But the sense that something nasty and lugubrious and mucousy wet, sliding and sloshing around the next corner, is always on high. First issues are so hard to nail down tight; either they're too bland with lengthy exposition leading nowhere and no revelations, or too ham-fisted with constant rote motion and not enough exposition to build suspense. Good crime and horror needs that suspense, but they also need enough action, uncertainty, and characters having lousy luck at the worst possible moments to make you turn the page or read the next issue. Brubaker, Phillips, and Stewart hit the jackpot here. Words are as important as imagery for the noir aesthetic and on both counts this first issue provides the right mix of textual and visual narrative in its pages, which run from 5 to 8 panels deep each page in a traditional layout.

The story starts with a funeral and loose ends needing to be tied up before they strangle somebody. There's the obligatory old dark mansion, papers to go through, the handsome and rugged in-over-his-head guy who's made all warm and masculine inside by the mysterious woman who holds the answers to the questions he's about to have his face rubbed in by sinister big henchmen with dark glasses and impatient demeanors. The backstory goes back a world war or two, and there's a few splattered cultists who probably shouldn't have done what they did. But now it's too late.

At 24 pages, this is a fine read. You know fine reads, don't you? They're the type we used to get before comic books went on a diet and cover prices fattened up. So kick back that two fingers of scotch, puff on that Camel until the smoke makes you teary-eyed and your throat hoarse, and pucker up for that big, wet one. Only don't be surprised if it's slimy and cool on the lips and smells like yesterday's catch.

This is noir horror, baby.