MCN Blogs
Ray Pride

By Ray Pride Pride@moviecitynews.com

That 9-Minute GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO Trailer


Glistening, gorgeous: the crystalline light in the nine-minute trailer for David Fincher‘s Girl With The Dragon Tattoo was the consistent aspect that kept me gawping after Wednesday night’s Chicago all-media of Straw Dogs. And Lisbeth Salander’s “FUCK YOU FUCKING FUCK” t-shirt, sported as soiled sleepwear is as immediately iconic as the stray cardboard carton with an IKEA logo. Whatever combination of digital formats Fincher and cinematographer Jeff Cronenweth are wielding, hurrah. Swedish eggshell-to-matte-gray light allows color and dimension to pop in almost every image in the product reel. (There’s a gray-black-orange-pale red sunset over a vista of Stockholm’s Soldermalm neighborhood like part of a slow dusk that would take hours to fall.) While it’s intended to introduce audiences who know neither Stieg Larsson‘s three books or the Swedish trilogy to the teeming dramatis personae, it’s comforting in a different way if you know the material: ah, this. Ah, that. (Unembarrassed grin in half-darkness.) A detail-fixated film director takes on a surly Aspergian protagonist with ample, similar skills? Ah, that. Here’s a streaming 7’26” of Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross‘ score. Twitter account @mouthtapedshut solicited those with a free Thursday evening in seventeen cities to retweet for the chance to be invited to…most  likely a sneak of Straw Dogs brandishing the same nine minutes. [Images via the film’s “viral” Tumblr MTS.]

2 Responses to “That 9-Minute GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO Trailer”

  1. M. A. Neofitou says:

    Is a nine minute trailer engaging or simply sloppy editing?

  2. Ray Pride says:

    It introduces the characters and gives a sense of the chilly style. Call it a “featurette,” like Hitchcock’s long promo for Psycho.

Leave a Reply

Movie City Indie

Quote Unquotesee all »

“I was 15 when I first watched Sally Hardesty escape into the back of a pickup truck, covered in blood and cackling like a goddamn witch. All of her friends were dead. She had been kidnapped, tortured and even forced to feed her own blood to her cannibalistic captors’ impossibly shriveled patriarch. Being new to the horror genre, I was sure she was going to die. It had been a few months since I survived a violent sexual assault, where I subsequently ran from my assailant, tripped, fell and fought like hell. I crawled home with bloody knees, makeup-stained cheeks and a new void in both my mind and heart. My sense of safety, my ability to trust others, my willingness to form new relationships and my love of spending time with people I cared about were all taken from me. It wasn’t until I found the original The Texas Chain Saw Massacre that something clicked. It was Sally’s strength, and her resilience. It was watching her survive blows to the head from a hammer. It was watching her break free from her bonds and burst through a glass window. It was watching her get back up after she’d been stabbed. It was watching her crawl into the back of a truck, laughing as it drove away from Leatherface. She was the last one to confront the killer, and live. I remember sitting in front of the TV and thinking, There I am. That’s me.”
~ Lauren Milici On “The Final Girl”

“‘Thriller’ enforced its own reality principle; it was there, part of the every commute, a serenade to every errand, a referent to every purchase, a fact of every life. You didn’t have to like it, you only had to acknowledge it. By July 6, 1984, when the Jacksons played the first show of their ‘Victory’ tour, in Kansas City, Missouri, Jacksonism had produced a system of commodification so complete that whatever and whoever was admitted to it instantly became a new commodity. People were no longer comsuming commodities as such things are conventionally understood (records, videos, posters, books, magazines, key rings, earrings necklaces pins buttons wigs voice-altering devices Pepsis t-shirts underwear hats scarves gloves jackets – and why were there no jeans called Bille Jeans?); they were consuming their own gestures of consumption. That is, they were consuming not a Tayloristic Michael Jackson, or any licensed facsimile, but themselves. Riding a Mobius strip of pure capitalism, that was the transubstantiation.”
~ Greil Marcus On Michael Jackson