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kahn_johnson 's review for:
The Girl in the Spider's Web
by David Lagercrantz
My copy of this book was last seen enjoying first class travel to London, having been abandoned when I got off the train.
And I didn't leave it behind by accident.
I had approached it with hope. Not high hope, sure, but light optimism at the very least. Someone having gone to the trouble of finding a suitable author to carry on Larsson's fine work must surely have done so with knowledge of what was needed?
Well, you'd think.
But what becomes apparent very quickly is that there is a big difference between knowing characters and reading them.
Larsson knew Salander and Blomqvist intimately (well, he would), while Lagercrantz had read the previous books.
What that leaves you with is a slight cold detachment, not the warmth and love that infused the pages of the original trilogy.
Of course, this could be a flaw in the translation. It could be Lagercrantz captured our heroes perfectly, but a perfunctory job done by someone who knew the words but not the nuance robbed him of some depth.
It could be that.
But that wouldn't explain the atrocious dialogue. Dialogue that I doubt gets spoken in Swedish, never mind English. Exposition-laden passages that, if genuinely spoken over coffee or a beer, would result in violence.
Then there's the plot. Or plots.
On the one hand, a computer whizz chap with marital issues and a kid on the verge of being a prodigy. Had legs, sure, if slightly leaden ones.
But it's the strand featuring Salander that is woeful.
It may have got better, it may have really picked up, but at the point the book was discarded in disgust Lagercrantz was basically ripping off the Edward Snowden saga - almost to the point of using his name.
And Larsson was so much better than that. His characters and legacy deserve better than that.
What he gave us were three thrilling novels that twisted, turned and left you breathless.
What we get in his wake is a lifeless tale with paper-thin characters and a world we barely recognise.
And I didn't leave it behind by accident.
I had approached it with hope. Not high hope, sure, but light optimism at the very least. Someone having gone to the trouble of finding a suitable author to carry on Larsson's fine work must surely have done so with knowledge of what was needed?
Well, you'd think.
But what becomes apparent very quickly is that there is a big difference between knowing characters and reading them.
Larsson knew Salander and Blomqvist intimately (well, he would), while Lagercrantz had read the previous books.
What that leaves you with is a slight cold detachment, not the warmth and love that infused the pages of the original trilogy.
Of course, this could be a flaw in the translation. It could be Lagercrantz captured our heroes perfectly, but a perfunctory job done by someone who knew the words but not the nuance robbed him of some depth.
It could be that.
But that wouldn't explain the atrocious dialogue. Dialogue that I doubt gets spoken in Swedish, never mind English. Exposition-laden passages that, if genuinely spoken over coffee or a beer, would result in violence.
Then there's the plot. Or plots.
On the one hand, a computer whizz chap with marital issues and a kid on the verge of being a prodigy. Had legs, sure, if slightly leaden ones.
But it's the strand featuring Salander that is woeful.
It may have got better, it may have really picked up, but at the point the book was discarded in disgust Lagercrantz was basically ripping off the Edward Snowden saga - almost to the point of using his name.
And Larsson was so much better than that. His characters and legacy deserve better than that.
What he gave us were three thrilling novels that twisted, turned and left you breathless.
What we get in his wake is a lifeless tale with paper-thin characters and a world we barely recognise.