I try, wherever possible, not to read in translation if I can help it, although it is course unavoidable if you do not have a good command of the native language. As a result, I seldom read 'genre' novels, such as detective or crime fiction and Sci-Fi, written by authors for whom English is not their primary language. The exceptions are confined to, as far as I remember: 'Frøken Smillas fornemmelse for sne' (Miss Smilla's feeling for snow') by Danish author Peter Høeg; most of the 'Maigret' novels by George Simenon and the three detective stories by the Swiss playwright, Friedrich Dürrenmatt; 'Der Richter und sein Henker' (The judge and his hangman), 'Der Verdacht' (Suspicion) and 'Das Versprechen' (The Pledge*); these were all read in the original languages. This is not snobbery, merely that there are so many good 'genre' type novels actually written in English that it seems somewhat wasteful to spend time on a translation of a common or garden thriller or space opera, no matter how good the plot might be.
However, I have no such compunction when it comes to translation in a different medium. I am quite happy to view Wallander in the Swedish TV version, with sub-titles switched on, even Branagh's English language version is tolerable, or Larsson's trilogy in the Scandinavian version. (Why Hollywood had to go and remake 'The girl with the dragon tattoo', I will never know; surely Noomi Rapace's 'Lisbeth Salander' is as iconic as Bogart's 'Sam Spade', performances which define the character. At least there was scope after Adam West's and Michael Keaton et al's lamentable performances as Batman to think that rebooting the 'franchise' made sense; even more so after Frank Miller's 'Dark Knight' comics which turned a very 'DC hero' into a virtual Stan Lee creation.)
Strangely, I bought the three disks of the Swedish TV version of Larsson's trilogy about three and a half years ago, not long after my stroke, but for some reason, I never watched the final instalment; perhaps in knowing the ending to the third book I was prematurely disappointed at Larsson's 'cop-out' in providing a 'happy ending'. Well, I finally got around to viewing all three in sequence last week and it seems to me that there is a steady decline from beginning to end, especially in the third programme. Although I have not read the books, I doubt that the fault lies with the director or the actors in the TV programmes, they were shot back to back in the manner of Jackson's 'Lord of the Rings'; it is far more likely to be the source material which is at fault. A lack of editing or revision on the part of the author perhaps, Larsson died of a heart attack not long after the books were completed but unpublished, and it is notoriously difficult to posthumously publish a book for the first time. The absence of the author leaves no scope for dialogue between editor and author, however copious the notes which remain. One only has to witness the mess made of Frank Herbert's 'Dune' legacy to see that; Christopher Tolkien has at least had the wisdom to see his father's posthumously published writing as unfinished works or works in progress and has edited them accordingly..
For all of Larsson's in-depth knowledge of the murky world of 'investigative journalism' and its role in laying bare the dubious nature of the soft under-belly of Swedish society which makes the character of Blomkvist at least believable, Lisbeth Salander, on the other hand, may almost have sprung fully formed from the pages of a comic book. Labelled a Paranoid Schizophrenic by her corrupt psychologist, a label she and the books deem inappropriate, she nonetheless borders on the clinically sociopathic. While she is dysfunctional in the extreme, she still manages to be far better then perhaps she has a right to be at a few, isolated skills; computer hacking, kick-boxing, sex. Only Rapace's skill prevents her from degenerating into an archetypal 'Hollywood superhero' with all of the depth of a cardboard cut-out, as so many of the characters, Blomkvist aside, are; ciphers without any real character..
Nonetheless it passed a sometimes engaging six hours, although it was not immune to predictability, and Rapace, for all her 'tom-boy' appearance still knocks the spots off of 99% of Hollywood both in looks and in skill. In the end, I suppose, I end up measuring any 'crime' or 'detective' novel or film by the yardsticks of Nicholas Freeling**, P D James*** or Georges Simenon**** in the same way that I measure Sci-Fi by Isaac Asimov and (the first three novels) Frank Herbert. Unless the alternatives measure up, not necessarily in the same way, I find it hard to engage.
I was about half way through the second of the trilogy of films when a unbidden thought struck me. I do not know what made me think about the person or that particular evening; she, in no way, resembled Lisbeth or Rapace, either in character, in experience or in appearance. However, the memory refused to fade and, oddly because I so rarely do it, I wrote a little poem about it. Quite why it came out in this form, I have nary a clue, it is a prime candidate for another 'Young Princess', another 'Faerie Queen' or another 'Nostalgia'***** type tale. Anyways, I append it here for your mockery or criticism; one day I will attempt to make my seldom written poetry rhyme but it always seems such a waste of effort.
For Ulrike******
In a fumbling ecstasy of panic and dread, I sit;
A cross-legged, chequered harlequin on the wooden floor.
There is but only a bed for homely comfort and yet,
Wrapped in shrouds of your stark, eburnean probity,
You sit there and, out of fear, I cannot.
I drink the dregs, the bitter lees of the grape, leftover
wine;
A vinegared sponge to test and torment the faithful.
Sour, faintly green, it dances around my tongue and yet,
Little
of Terpsichoré remains in this moonlight
And in my mind, I yearn for Carolina.
Your tousled, mousy hair frames your delicate, button nose,
Those long, ivory legs, your toes’ gentle inward curl,
They sing to me in voiceless contraltos, beckoning yet;
Mute Circe tempting,
once more, noble, brave Ulysses
And perhaps I, too, should now be leaving.
For it is past-midnight late and I am no longer fun;
It is past the time for laughter, Plato, Socrates.
Coffee would be welcome but I fear I must decline yet;
Alone abed, Argus lies dozing, awaiting me;
You still wear propriety as a caul.
I’d happily trade Xeno for nights of unbridled passion,
Pay any price to lie in your arms, damning the dog.
It would take but a single move, white knight to queen three,
check
But I lack the courage for boldness, to gamble all
And any excuse is better than none.
None better, the final, only resort;
Unremitting, terminal aloofness.
* Made into a Hollywood film by Sean Penn in 2001 which starred Jack Nicholson. Well worth a watch if you have not seen it.
** Freeling is a much more accomplished writer than the TV adaption of his most famous creation, Van der Valk, would lead you to believe.
*** Surely the ageing Queen Mother of crime fiction.
**** Simenon almost invented the intelligent, cultured policeman with Commissaire Maigret.
***** Ultimately, perhaps that is its derivation. Nostalgia (by Emily Barker) is the theme for Branagh's 'Wallender'. Ulrike came from Hamburg; a short hop across Schleswig-Holstein to Lübeck and thence by ferry to Malmö. I love joining the dots in this way! Any passing allusions in the poem to Wilfred Owen (‘Dulce et decorum est’), Steven Stills (‘Helplessly hoping’ and ‘Suite: Judy Blue Eyes’), Melanie Safka (‘Leftover wine’), James Taylor (‘Carolina in my mind’). Cream (Disraeli Gears*******) and Greek philosophy are entirely deliberate and merely reflect an evening of poetry, music and idle discussion with no impolite distractions, however welcome they would have been!
****** The names have been changed to protect innocence, mine and hers!
******* Which a friend of mine would habitually call a bicycle's 'Derailleur gears'.
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