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Ten Word or Less Review: The Snore That Kicked the Hornet’s Nest
Steig Larson and his world phenomenon Millennium Trilogy must feel like the literature equal of smoking crack, because as a series of movies this trilogy is a  serving of bad Leverpostej.  Things got off on a good note back in ’09.  First novel, Dragon Tattoo, was a well executed mystery thriller with just enough style and intrigue to garner some heat on the art house circuit as well as drum up critical support from the likes of people like me.  You figure all the rape would turn people off but that was not the case.  One rape scene?  Hell, make it two!  The audience loves it!  Putting that curious element aside it was a solid and uncompromising starting point to what would hopefully leap into something grand and ominous as further chapters unwound.  The quickly produced sequels though have been nothing but a dull throb of tension free drudgery.  Played with Fire and now Hornet’s Nest have provided little more than a total of 4 hours of rote storytelling punctuated with a mud in your eye conclusion.
To quickly prove this point lead heroine Lisbeth spends the first hour of this movie sitting in a hospital bed texting.  Cue adrenaline rush.  And when Lisbeth isn’t texting with her free time old Norwegian guys are shuffling around conspiring with one another.  Now I know what a rush meth must provide.  Look at that old guy plot against the goth chick who can’t walk.  Wowzers.  I sat with Jess and waddled through the dull muck of this first hour and then accidentally stopped the movie, remote slip up, at which point I asked if she even cared that I had stonewalled it.  She did not.  For the sake of knowing the outcome I skipped ahead to the finale 20 minutes or so and to no surprise I discovered we had missed absolutely nothing by leaping to the end.  We casually watched the story wrap up and though a guy got a lot of nails put in his feet we were unmoved.  The final scene drives home an apt answer to my long gestating question about this whole story.  Why are people so wrapped up in this sour mush of a narrative?  The answer?  I haven’t the faintest idea.  Maybe it’s the mohawk and leather collars.  And the rape.  I got nothing else.

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