
bliss lane

@theartofmadeline
YOU ARE THE REASON
we're not kids anymore.
Claire Keane
Sade Olutola
Jules of Nature

No title available
Monterey Bay Aquarium
đ
One Nice Bug Per Day
đȘŒ
Fai_Ryy
The Stonewall Inn
art blog(derogatory)
KIROKAZE
trying on a metaphor
EXPECTATIONS
noise dept.
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
seen from Germany

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from T1

seen from TĂŒrkiye
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Italy
seen from United States

seen from Suriname
seen from United Kingdom

seen from South Korea
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States

seen from Belgium

seen from India

seen from Russia

seen from Russia

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
@nordicana
Troll Hunter: Transnationalism through the Senses
As the proverbial debate surrounding national cinema perpetuates in the age of postmodernism, the emergence of the so-called transnational discourse of cinema has taken root among film scholars. The cinema of the Scandinavian countries retains a unique position within the national cinema debate. With a collaborative effort at the foundation of their film productions, Nordic cinemas are said to maintain a definitive sentiment of their own individual national identities, even amongst closely related or shared cultural sensibilities and linguistic construction. This brings us to one of Scandinaviaâs most recent and successful offerings; AndrĂ© Ăvredalâs commercially lucrative Trolljegeren/Troll Hunter (2010). Troll Hunter neatly epitomises the juncture where all of these debates fuse together. The film also helps to delineate the notion of transnationalism as a concept that does not always necessarily equate to physical movement across the borders of a country. Consolidating the themes, techniques, characterizations and a brief history of these seminal concepts, an attempt will be made to outline how this film negotiates these theoretical frameworks in a bid to further understand their construction and impact on cinema today.
When cinema itself is read as a social text, it can reflect on the specific period in which it was made and act as an insightful mode of national self-portraiture. It can behave as a metaphorical postcard from the past, documenting public anxiety, perpetuate stereotypes, record social change as well as attempts to subvert it. Cinema is always a product of its history, however, and an understanding of its shaping can be traced back to the fabric of the society in which it was created. The historical context of Troll Hunter in relation to its national identity forms the cornerstone of this debate. Contemporary Nordic cinema, chronicled from the 1990s onwards, offers us a shift in the dynamics of cinematic production, where the use of transnationalism as a viable term began to take root. This is partly thought to be linked with the encroaching success of Hollywood, another consequence of which was a supposed reinvigoration of national cinema. These periods of both redefinition and reinvigoration, however, raise further questions as to how Nordic national cinemas have been and continue to be defined. Perhaps, however, to speak of Nordic cinema in a national context in the current climate of global transition is out- dated?From an external perspective, particularly a Hollywood one, the Nordic nations remain nationally indistinct, especially in terms of cinematic output.
National cinemaâs ability to negotiate foreign elements into itself is maybe a key component of its resilience and innovation. These arterial modifications within national film culture are arguably strengthened by Hollywoodâs dominant market position. It is this fight against the dominant hegemonic infrastructure of Hollywood that allows European national cinemas the breeding ground to continually expand and diversify. Perhaps what has so far been said of ânational cinemaâ as we have tried to understand it is less about national cinema, but the attitude towards the idea of national cinema. Rather than having all cinema mapped against Hollywood, as has been the case in the past, perhaps the familiarity of the Hollywood model has been absorbed and internalized, casting such a wealth of influence over cinema worldwide; to have a national model completely independent of its influences is the ultimate rarity. âHollywood can hardly be conceived as other, since so much of any national film culture is implicitly âHollywoodââ (Eslaesser 1987:166). On the other hand, perhaps a national cinema is only ânationalâ when it deals with singular ânationalâ issues and the moment it seeks to engage with the global, it loses its national specificity. âNotions of the national cinema and the international are inextricably linked because they define each other.â (Willemen 2006: 29). It could be argued that, paradoxically, that national identity perpetuated though cinema has always, itself, been a product of globalization; constantly redefining itself as it fights to determine itself in the crowd.
One of the most important facets of Troll Hunter, relative to these theories, is underscored through the way in which it is filmed. The function of the found footage technique employed by Ăverdal transcends the gimmicky associations of the Hollywood genre convention. Instead, it becomes our viewfinder throughout, having Thomas, Johanna and Kalle function as our literal and figurative eyes, ears and interpreter through which the mythology of Norwegian folklore is reinvigorated for the modern age. It is introduced to the postmodern Norwegian audience, but also from our point of view throughout, as though issues of seemingly national significance are a mere drop in the ocean and that the destruction of nature and bureaucratic interference is beyond a national issue; it resonates with a global significance. It is as if the film works on several levels simultaneously, appearing to address the Norwegian consciousness through the inclusion of ânationalâ debates, but the transnational mode of production engenders the audiencesâ perspective by hijacking the sensory experience of us all.
 In anticipation of counter-arguments that challenge Troll Hunter as a transnational film, it would be important not to neglect the subtly of some of the background cultural references. What complicates the idea of Troll Hunter as a transnational film are the politicized themes reverberating in the background, themes that perhaps aim to stimulate the national consciousness as opposed to an international one. In addition, there are also particular nuances related to characterization and audience appeal. The trolls, however, form the base of Troll Hunterâs ostensible national niche. The role of the rich heritage of literature in the history of films from the Scandinavian nations is indisputable. The impenetrable and far-reaching literary works from each Nordic nation vary greatly and its influence had helped shape the cinematic adaptations when scripts have crossed boundaries to be re-drafted. Part of the transnational conversion of scripts and stories involves interpreting each narrative so that it translates appropriately in the country in question. The trolls are an obvious national marker in this instance. The film even re-enacts several archetypical scenes from Norwegian fairy tales including Three Billy Goats Gruff and the niceties of the diverse troll species, including the appearance of mountain trolls, as well as retaining sentiments such as the trollsâ abilities to detect the scent of Christian blood. This reference perhaps offers us an interesting insight into Norwayâs changing relationship with regards to religion, with only one third of the trio declaring themselves to be Christian. The replacement camera woman induces a degree of ambiguity when she declares that she is a Muslim, leaving Hans uncertain as to how the trolls would react to this.
 âNation states may not have the autonomies or efficacies they once had, but the fact   remains that many key institutional frameworks and policy directives find expression at the nation state level, even when they involve an address to transnational, international or global realities.
(Hjort 2005: 27).
Other specific Norwegian cultural references include the use of Norwegian comedians like Otto Jespersen and Robert Stoltenberg, the latter playing a Polish bear poacher, a further reference to Norwayâs dependence on Polish labour, especially in relation to tackling unwanted jobs, but it also helps to diffuse the potential gravity of the scene, perpetuating and parodying stereotypes. There is also a subtle but significant microcosm of the main narrative at work. The conflict between the farmers and their limited rights to exterminate predators on their land due to the restrictions of Norwegian wildlife conservation laws mirrors that of Hans and his conflicted battles between man and beast as well as the ongoing war of attrition between people and governments. There is also the issue of the power lines running through the Norwegian countryside, a consequence of which involved the slaughter of many infant trolls at the hands of a reluctant and rueful Hans.
Aside from the obvious references to Norwegian folklore facilitated through the varying species of trolls, there are also layers of Norwegian artistic and cultural references far more subtle to an international audience. Norwegian artist Theodor Kittlesenâs painting Soria Moria Castle is referenced directly in the film when Thomas cuts an identical figure to that in the painting against the milieu of the Norwegian landscape. Kittlesen, who was primarily famed for his depiction of trolls and Norwegian fairy tales, was a key source of inspiration for the trollsâ aesthetic design. The close connections between Norwegian nature and notions of identity are certainly refreshed and elevated through the lingering shots of the Norwegian countryside. Troll Hunter has been interpreted as a metaphor for a changing Norwegian national identity in relation to certain ânationalâ subject matters. In this sense, there is perhaps an irony underscored in the sense that when a ânationalâ film seeks a global audience, they have lost a sentiment of the ânationalâ. The use of the so-called found footage convention interjects as the ultimate transnational indicator, where the perspective invites us, as the audience, to experience a more personal sensory interaction. The subject themes, while they appear national, could ultimately be valid anywhere. This is the reason why the convention is so effective; it is instantly identifiable and therefore significant on an international scale, helping to bring these themes to international attention. Norway functions as a vessel through which the consequences and collisions between man, beast, nature and globalization can be played out.
While the film explores the interplay between fantasy and reality; simultaneously it engenders numerous geopolitical and bureaucratic subject matters. While these facets appear to target the Norwegian nation, Troll Hunterâs effective blend of the internationally recognizable found footage convention behaves as our sensory introduction to such subjects, as opposed to a national one. The topics of the film illustrate the destructive power of nature but also the destructive hand wielded by man, themes that, whilst foregrounded through the backdrop of the Norwegian nation, ultimately transcend the boundaries of any one homeland. This, in itself, adopts a principal significance expressly in todayâs unfixed, globalized world.
Nói albinói (Kåri, 2003)
Film has dream, film has music. No form of art goes beyond ordinary consciousness as film does, straight to our emotions, deep into the twilight room of the soul Ingmar Bergman
Melancholian 3 Huonetta
The filming of Melancholian 3 Huonetta (The 3 Rooms of Melancholia) took place during the Second Chechnyan War. Finnish writer and director Pirjo Honkasalo and producer Kristiina Pervila risked their lives during the shoot. Despite the obvious attritions that a war entails, in tandem with the continuous threats that the crew faced, Menlancholian 3 Huonetta is devoid of any dramatic action. Honkasaloâs lingering takes capture a desolate bleakness, both in Russia and Chechnya. The film, however, was not part of an orchestrated direct political commentary, but rather an exploration of hatred and the legacy that it leaves for the children in its wake. Instead there is a focus on intimacy, spirituality, longing and loss.
Honkasaloâs film is very much in keeping with her auteur style. What is interesting about Honkasaloâs auteur status is how it extends beyond vision and power, as she is also heavily involved with the pragmatic, skill-based practices of film production. For example, she also occupies the role of cinematographer, script writer and editor. She is highly aware of the porous relationship between documentary and reality. In knowing this, she takes the unusual step of marrying these two concepts together, promoting the idea that exposing truth through documentary requires a degree of poetry and fictionalization as a way of thinking.
The three chapter structure of Melancholian 3 Huonetta is akin to a typical altar-piece assembly commonly witnessed between the Middle Ages and the Renaissance. The film gravitates towards silence as opposed to action. It is also a project that is driven by atonement on Honkasaloâs part, as a Finnish citizen who grew up with the knowledge of Soviet prison camps and the harassment of dissidents, things that were widely considered internal, Soviet matters.
Adolescence also becomes a prevalent theme throughout. The notion of melancholia becomes an agency of viewing the film through the eyes of a Western audience, an audience who feel paralyzed by their inability to act. The theme of Mothers also plays a central role, paradoxically, in their absence. Loss of Mother and loss of homeland are irrevocably connected throughout the exploration of each room, both in Russia and Chechnya. Honkasalo does not discriminate and suffering and innocence know no ethical or cultural restrictions.
In a sense , silence functions from two different perspectives; the way it becomes the seminal tool for conveying the impact of conflict on children, together with how it exposes our silence on the outside, a stoic complacency that becomes incomprehensible when juxtaposed against the suffering that is exposed.Â
"You can`t make films for everybody. Then itâs a compromise from beginning to end. We have different histories, different memories. I kind of see myself as a film director, where I paint a landscape and thereâs many ways to view it. And for me itâs okay that they come out with a different thing.â Pirjo Honkasalo
En Kvinnas Ansikte
Gustav Molanderâs 1938 production En Kvinnas Ansikte (A Womanâs Face) at RĂ„sunda Studio materialized as part of a drive by the production company Svensk Filmindustri to inspire a reputation for âquality films.â Molander, who had started his career as a scriptwriter for the likes of Victor Sjöström and Mauritz Stiller, had risen to become one of Svensk Filmindustriâs most lucrative Swedish directors of the 1930s and 40s. Its success meant that a Hollywood remake followed just a few short years after its release.Â
What is interesting about Molanderâs film, and indeed its Hollywood remake, are the differing agencies of representation that women occupy in each film. Beneath its exterior, Molanderâs rendition acts as a steadfast opponent to the dominant patriarchal narrative that mainstream cinema conformed to. It does this, however, in a less conventional fashion, one that goes beyond simply documenting the successes of a headstrong woman in a male dominated world. En Kvinnas Ansikte maps out a series of polarizing discourses that struggle for domination throughout the duration of the film. First of all we have the patriarchal discourse that objectifies Anna, plotted against Annaâs multifaceted  discourse which simultaneously explores her past and motives as well as the therapeutic transition of her personality.
Annaâs scar comes to function as a series of different meanings. Fundamentally, it betrays her personal history and illustrates that she is more than an object to be looked at. Her scar gives her an enigmatic quality that transcends many of the narratives of the time where many female characters were reduced to ornamental puppets. The scar could also function as a metaphorical symbol of patriarchyâs hold over women. Annaâs personality, an intelligent, acerbic and at times ruthless leader sharply juxtaposes this patriarchal default role for her as an object. In Molanderâs version, the revealing of Annaâs many sides goes hand in hand with a complex and intelligent use of mirrors, representing her underdeveloped personality and self-perception as well as, ultimately, her transformation.Â
The male gaze is deftly exposed during the scene when doctor Wegert examines Annaâs face following her operation. The audience and Anna alike are prevented from seeing the results while Wegert painstakingly analyses his work, exercising a command without ever physically touching her, symbolically cementing the fact that he does not even require his physicality to master her. It is from this point in the narrative that the fundamental differences between the Swedish version and the American re-make become more conflict-ridden.
Despite the doctors power to successfully intervene, it is Anna who takes charge of the development of her independence. She also concludes with the link between her criminal path and her scar. Although it is Wergert who harnesses the capability to change Anna's face, it is made clear that a change in her outlook and world-view must come from her. This underdeveloped aspect of her personality and the confrontation with those nuances of her past come quite independently of the influences of any men. Â
As the film closes we are left with perhaps the most revealing facet, one that confirms a diagnosis for Hollywood as one content with retaining women within the frame of the male gaze. Anna's steadfast, iron will remains, as does the platonic relationship with Wegert. Hollywoodâs territorial makeover, directed by George Cukor in 1941, firmly cements woman's role as object, with Joan Crawford as Annaâs Hollywood equivalent. Instead, the scar functions only as an obstacle blocking her from fulfilling what she craves; a traditional and conservative, female-defined role as an object. In conclusion, the Hollywood version sees Anna's equivalent character romancing with doctor Wergert on a boat to China, giving way to a love-dependency relationship, something Molander resists effectively. Cukorâs Anna is robbed of the sophisticated mise-en-scĂšne and intelligent use of props that Molander used to frame and develop a backstory that belonged Anna alone. It is replaced by Crawfordâs Anna, a simpering, sentimental woman literally and figuratively put on trial by a succession of male authority figures.
I'm so glad this blog exists! Definitely a good call to dedicate a place for Scandinavian film, TV, and literature. I've seen the films you have mentioned here so far, and I can't wait to see what you have in store for the future. Cheers from New York. - Edwin
You are most welcome Edwin! As it happens, I'm actually a film student  who specialises in Nordic cinema and I'm currently writing my final year dissertation, so hopefully there will be plenty of extra research material generated for this blog
Roy Andersson
Swedish director Roy Andersson stands out as an interesting example of a contemporary Nordic auteur. His fixation with narrative devices that concentrate on the quotidian everyday dealings of charactersâ lives often forms part of a critical social-cultural dissection of both Swedish and Western societies. One of his returning creations, SĂ„nger frĂ„n andra vĂ„ningen (Songâs from the Second Floor, 2000) came after a lapse in feature filmmaking during which time he was involved in producing commercials. Each piece of filmmaking is branded with his stylistic criteria; minimal use of cuts or camera movement, use of amateur actors and intelligently constructed mise-en-scĂšne together with a peppering of his darkly humourous touches. Caricaturing Swedish society and culture is key to his unwavering auteur status. The antithesis of his use of deadpan humour and austere social commentary provoke some interesting questions to be raised about the representation of Swedish identity.
Lat den ratte komma in vs. Let Me In
John Ajvide Lindqvistâs 2004 horror fiction novel LĂ„t den rĂ€tte komma in, translated as Let the Right One In, was adapted for the screen in 2008 by Swedish director Tomas Alfreson. Due to the widespread critical acclaim the film met with upon its release, an American remake directed by Matt Reeves was commissioned and Let Me In was released in 2010. The various adaptations would prove divisive for many.
Alfredson had expressed his concerns over the inclusion of some of the more explicit scenes from Lindqvistâs original story. His apprehensions were born out of a fear that topics of such a serious nature would only act as a distraction to the audience and divert their attention away from the dynamic he had worked hard to create between the characters of Eli and Oskar. After the success yielded from the release of the first screen adaption, there was controversy surrounding the grounds for a remake and Alfredson himself later stated that "If one should remake a film, it's because the original is bad. And I don't think mine is.â American director Matt Reeves had stated his wish to base his rendition of the story on the novel. There were, however, a number of themes lacking, or at least modified in his interpretation that would translate differently to the American audience.
The complete elimination of the aspects of gender and sexuality that were present in both Let the Right One In and the novel caused a considerable dispute amongst fans of the original story. Eliâs corresponding character Abby in Let Me In was described by some critics as significantly more aesthetically feminine. Lindqvistâs original character Eli is not biologically female, nor does the character predominantly identify as female. That dimension of obscurity has been totally removed from Reeveâs adaption. ChloĂ« Moretz, who was cast as Abby, is undeniably a more feminine choice in comparison with Lina Leandersson. As a direct consequence of this aesthetic decision, the androgynous facet of that character has been lost. There was an unconventional incongruity surrounding Eliâs character that Alfredson was able to capture. There was a darkly enigmatic eccentricity about her performance that makes her captivating to watch; she is bizarrely out-of-place. Alfredsonâs Eli harbors a subtle depth of anonymity that Abby lacks. Reeves did however manage to successfully capture a similar atmospheric sentiment throughout his film, and while some of the visual choices surroundingAbbyâs appearance made the narrative a little more repetitive, the performances, particularly those of the child actors, were equally as outstanding as those of Lina Leandersson and KĂ„re Hedebrant.
The theme of Eliâs ambiguous gender is explored more subtly in Alfredsonâs adaption. The fleeting hint of a suggestive scar alludes to no explicit elaboration into the details of Eliâs castration as Lindqvist does in the book. Although issues surrounding Eliâs castration are hinted at, be that in a more oblique way, in Alfredsonâs rendition it remains absent from Reedsâ adaption entirely. The unidentified aspect of Eliâs gender, up until this point in the film, does not appear to have played an integral role in her relationship with Oskar. Oskar is seen silently expressing his surprise when he catches a transitory view of Eliâs scar, yet this new, unexplained dimension to his character does not alter his behavior towards him either. I think that it is this very facet that creates the most significant divide between the two filmic adaptions. The idea that nothing changes because of this exposure gives us, as an audience, an insight into Oskarâs character. Because this scene does not exist in Let Me In, Owen lacks this level of profundity. This ultimately adds a new, deeper, significance to the relationship between Oskar and Eli. The American audience was prevented from reaching their own inferences and it had been suggested that the modifications to the narrative structure made by Reeves were put in place in order to suture the audience away from certain notions regarding gender and, perhaps, the homosexual subtext surrounding Oskarâs father. All of these decisions to alter or adjust the narrative must be examined against their wider political or social contexts. Personally, many of the themes Reeves removed were paramount to understanding the story. They were integral to understanding, interpreting and cementing the relationship connections between each character. Let Me In has been cinematically shaped, edited down and had its edges smoothed over, disregarding all issues that have the potential to provoke debate. There have, undoubtedly been significant modifications within the narratives of both films in contrast to the novel. There is, however, a certain degree of empathetic understanding that Alfredson captures in Let the Right One In that I found intensely alluring.Â
Superficially, both films differ from the novel but it was the decision by Reeves to exclude the theme of gender and sexuality that equated to a less effectual rendition of Lindqvistâs novel. There is a sense of truth lost to what could be described as a blatant censorship of certain topics.
Understandably, there were many events in the book, including the graphic sexual abuse of children, which could never have been allowed to translate onto the screen. Alfredson and Lindqvist reached a consensus whereby his modification of the book could be translated into a truly sublime chronicle of a friendship between two people that harboured an endearing sensitivity. Let Me In is sufficient as a remake, but it lacked the sincerity and depth of the relationship Hedebrant and Leandersson were able to so graciously carry through in the original film.
Itâs Grim Up North? Nordic Noir and Scandinavia's Crime Fiction Fanaticism
 Stieg Larsson, Jo NesbĂž, Peter HĂžeg and Karin Fossum. These names have all come to define the face of Scandinaviaâs now iconic back catalogue of crime fiction. Many questions have been raised regarding the reasons behind both their plot devices and their eternal popularity with us on the outside of Scandinavia. The relenting Scandinavian stereotype too many of those outside the Nordic countries is one of freedom spawned from intrinsic democratic principles, a default attitude supposedly present in all Scandinavian people. Why then has this ostensibly idyllic landscape become the nucleus for so many of these narratives? Scratch the surface and lying dormant in many of these stories there lives a parallel world to that of the perennial Nordic stereotype. It is a world that has been translated into the Nordic literature that has become so prominent in recent years.
#
Per Wahlöö and Maj Sjöwall
Swedenâs Per Wahlöö and Maj Sjöwall set the template for almost all of the Scandinavian detective novels that have emerged in recent years. Their chief creation, a police detective called Martin Beck, found fame through a series of ten novels famed for their mantra of prophetic realism and Marxist leaning tendencies. Wahlöö and Sjöwall set out to explore the failure of Swedenâs post-WWII prosperity and the welfare state to produce the socialist utopia that was anticipated.  Also present within the stories was the blurring of the personal and professional life of the main protagonist. From their Marxist perspective, the two writers painted a picture of a Swedish urban landscape that was riddled with the poverty-stricken and disenfranchised and where murder became the logical next step within a society that was fast becoming a landscape fraught with the anxieties of despondency.
Henning Mankell
The fall of Communism in the 1980s and 90s as well as the ratification of the EU led to an influx of immigration into the Nordic countries. The consequences for Scandinaviaâs crime fiction saw the anxieties of this new inflow of people and the intolerance that followed played out in Henning Mankellâs Kurt Wallander novels. The assassination of Swedenâs social democratic Prime Minister Olof Palme in 1986 shook Sweden and Scandinavia to its core. Shot dead in the middle of Stockholm, to many Swedes this equated to the death of the state and catapulted them into a new era where Sweden had lost a sense of its seemingly natural credulity. The murder of Olof Palme to this day remains unsolved. Many believe that this is reflected in all Scandinavian crime fiction where a void has been created and the vestiges of justice have yet to be reinstated.
Karin Fossum
Unlike Henning Mankell who explored the effects of outside influences on Nordic identity, Norwayâs Karin Fossum sustains Henrik Ibsenâs notion of social outcasts as created by social situations. Instead, in Fossumâs novels, both killer and victim come from the same place. The killer is the Everyman and part of the ostensibly domesticated norm. Fossum is unconcerned with the direction of the plot and instead pours her efforts into making her readership feel something, for both victim and killer alike.
 Jo NesbÞ
One of Norwayâs most popular literary exports is Jo NesbĂž and his Harry Hole series. Clearly influenced by the archetypal maverick cops that resonate throughout the history of American crime fiction and drama, Hole is set in pursuit of one artisan serial killer after another, thwarted perpetually by corrupt cops and politicians. This corruption, NesbĂž claims, is drawn from Norwayâs transition from a poor country to one that experienced uninterrupted affluence since the Americanâs discovered oil there in the 1970s. NesbĂžâs tapestry of fascinatingly shifty and spineless corrupt characters has filtered through from a moral vacuum that NesbĂž claims wealth has bestowed on the country. NesbĂžâs books also explore a more visceral and violent aesthetic and cleverly negotiate cultural influences from outside the country yet, simultaneously, remain culturally relevant to Norway.
 Arnaldur Indriðason
Icelandâs Arnaldur Indriðason exposes his greatest fears in his exceptional book Jar City. First published in 2000, the book is strangely prophetic, documenting Indriðason terror of the surveillance society that we are currently in the throes of. The creation of a DNA database that holds the genetic material of every Icelander together with an unsettling plot device centred around harvested organs, itâs a dystopian parable that befits the post-modern age. Jar City was brought to life in 2006 in Baltasar KormĂĄkurâs fantastic screen adaptation of the same name.
 Peter HÞeg
Peter HĂžegâs 1992 novel FrĂžken Smillas fornemmelse for sne (Miss Smillaâs Feeling for Snow) began a revitalization of the interest in Nordic Noir. Social inequality and a female lead whosemarginalization is not dissimilar to that of Larssonâs iconic creation Lisbeth Salander, HĂžegâs novel examines the social injustices of Denmark through an investigative crime story. There is a great sense of place in the book, nature's variations of snow become the key to unravelling the mystery and function as a sixth sense to the main protagonist.
 Stieg Larsson
Stieg Larssonâs Millennium trilogy MĂ€n som hatar kvinnor (Men Who Hate Women) that was later re-titled The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo put Scandinavian crime fiction on the global map. A new wave of immigration set in motion a reactionary and organized far-right movement in Sweden during the 1990s. This upsurge of intolerance led revered investigative journalist Stieg Larsson to establish Expo, a magazine with the specific goal of unearthing right wing extremism, xenophobia and racism in all its forms. As a result, Larssonâs life was perpetually in jeopardy at the behest of these right-wing groups. The Millennium trilogy sought to epitomize his portrait of Swedish society. The heroine, Lisbeth Salander, comes to symbolize the almost sociopathic product of a hegemonic society controlled by corrupt and abusive men. Ironically, Larsson died in 2004 at the age of 50, not at the hands of a right-wing conspiracy, but climbing seven flights of stairs after which he succumbed to a heart attack.
 Perhaps there lies a paradox in the fact that, without its aspirational and prosperous image to us on the outside, the impact of Scandinaviaâs crime fiction may not have been so profoundly felt. Perhaps Nordic fiction needs this sharp juxtaposition to exert the strong hold it currently has on the world. A common theme all of these books share is a sense of failure in the infrastructure of Nordic societies and how this failure impacts on the very identities of its people. Many believe that this fanaticism with Nordic Noir is simply a passing phase that will eventually dwindle. What the future holds for this genre of literature remains uncertain, however, the terrorist attacks in Oslo and on UtĂžya in 2011 have re-kindled debates concerning the presence of political extremism that were so intrinsic to Larssonâs way of thinking. It has opened up old wounds regarding a hidden volatility in Nordic societies and perhaps, most importantly, has dramatically confirmed the notion of the threat from within. Maybe there is still a place for these dark and multifaceted stories in this unpredictable and ever changing world.