The Millenium Trilogy

There’s no arguing with the success of the Millenium trilogy, handed by Steig Larsson over to his publisher shortly before his death. The main character, Lisbeth Salander, has been singled out as one of the most ‘unique’ heroines that crime fiction has ever produced. It was with this hype that I received the whole trilogy as a present over Christmas, and I set down to read the lot pretty much straight away. I wish I hadn’t.

I have many issues with the books, but I’m going to concentrate on one per book for the sake of brevity. The first is Larsson’s understanding of what constitutes a cliché. Early on in the first book, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, one of the main characters has the novels central mystery described to him by an elderly man. He immediately remarks that the situation sounds like some kind of cliché from a crime novel, to which the elderly man responds by agreeing, but insisting it really happened. As far as I can tell, the book then seems to think that by addressing the fact it’s central mystery is clichéd, it has avoided this trap. In reality, Larsson only succeeds in bringing the shortcomings in his writing directly to your attention.

The Girl who Played with Fire, the second novel in the trilogy, manages to throw any lingering doubts of realism from the first book out of the window in the first 75 pages. Having made it through the events of the first book, Salandar goes on holiday, saves a woman from certain death at the hands of her abusive husband while a hurricane hits the beach, has her flight delayed by the threat of a terrorist on board the plane, and ruins a corrupt estate agent. While I understand that Larsson is trying to keep the readers attention whilst building plot for later in the novel, there is no need to do this by making every single thing the main character does some kind of incident. He only ends up creating a world where everyone who is not explicitly introduced as a ‘good person’ is essentially a devious arse-hole out to fuck someone over.

The trilogy concludes with The Girl who Kicked the Hornets Nest, which prefaces each section of the book with a mixture of historical fact and myth surrounding the idea of female warriors capable of taking on men. It’s at this stage when the true ideals, and limitations, behind the book are revealed. The trilogy proudly displays its ‘feminist’ credentials, taking you through an array of bad guys who deal in trafficking, or just plain like some good old fashioned rape. There are also multiple female characters who act as successful, independent role models. This in itself is a great ideal, but Larsson’s understanding of equality is hideous. His idea of proving the equality of women to men is by showing that they can beat men up. His ideal of female equality, in other words, is a distinctly male one.

I’ve not seen the Swedish film adaptations, and I’m writing this before the American remakes reach cinema screens. As a result, I can’t share my verdict with you on how this saga translates onto the big screen. My suspicion is that with a talented cast and production team, they could probably make a decent story out of this. Films often condense a novel into it’s highlights, usually by cutting out the crap. If they managed this with either adaptation, it’s bound to be a vastly improved, if considerably shortened, version.

I, Too, Am Malay

Working on the Southbank in London, I got to see a fair amount during the recent student protests in London. Helicopters flew over our office, while groups of protesters came streaming out of the station heading towards the march. Some clever UCL students set up a custom Google map, that allowed them to update the progress of the strike over the internet, allowing other students to view where any clashes were happening. This was brilliant. I can see Nelson atop his column from my desk, but couldn’t see any of the action below. This map allowed me, and the whole world, to get regular updates (roughly every few minutes) on the locations of protesters and police. Admittedly I had to question the accuracy of the map at times - I’m pretty sure the giant Godzilla icon that was placed in the Thames wasn’t real - but the map showed open, public defiance of the government.

It can sometimes be easy to forget the fact that such public opposition to the government is a right people in other countries struggle for. The current conflict in Libya is notably marked by Ghaddafi’s claims that all the people in Libya love him, an outright denial of such opposition even existing. I, Too, Am Malay, is a book written about a country where brutal force isn’t applied to those who disagree with government policy, but political ostracism is.

The author, Zaid Ibrahim, is a former minister of the Malaysian government. He resigned from his post in controversial circumstances, and was later kicked out of his political party. In this book, he recounts his life story, in which he founds the country's biggest law firm, he explains his version of events when he was in government, and sets out his idea of where the country should be going. If the book has one success, it’s in Ibrahim’s pleas for political debate to be encouraged, and for the nation to embrace it’s multi-ethnic population and learn to treat them all as equal citizens. I’ll admit I’m a sucker for this kind of rhetoric, which delves into the nations past and shows how the country was at it’s best when working together. Learning to accept each others differences can lead to a stronger society. If you don’t agree with these principles, you’re probably not worth listening to. Still, for Malaysian society, these are important principles, and are still being learned.

Where the book suffers is in Ibrahim’s treatment of his own life. While he seems to be gracious and respectful to all, he remains a politician. What I mean by this, is, that I don’t trust his version of events. He seems not to have a clue why certain events surrounding him transpired, especially when accusations of political opportunism are thrown at him. You get the impression that certain, crucial, events are being skimmed over in order for him to present himself in the most flattering light possible. It’s a shame that a book with such a positive message is, in a way, undermined by the author’s failure to acknowledge his own shortcomings. I still think the book contains enough inspiring material to merit a read, but if Ibrahim truly believes in the right to criticism, then he surely won’t mind my declaration that I don’t believe him.