Please don't watch this! My call is for those who know the source and those who bypass it. I'll try to talk about it in detail.
For those who are completely in the tank: a series of novels about police investigator Harry Hall, owned by the pen of the Norwegian writer Yu Nesbø, currently has 11 books. And, with the exception of the very first, any of them is good, fascinating fiction, well above average. Around the fourth and fifth novels, the author finally found his own formula for success. I use the word “success formula” in a very positive sense. Genre “Rocky detective about a Norwegian in exotic scenery” (“Netopyr”, “Roaches”) Nesbø successfully changed to a creepy thriller series in which typical life situations are always ready to step aside and miss something truly sinister. And really terrible are the incidents that grow out of the most ordinary realities.
An unsuccessful marriage of convenience, fading echoes of the Second World War, the loss of a loved one, non-native children, marital infidelity, drug addiction, corruption - sad, but familiar and understandable things, each of which can turn into a nightmare for all involved. And Nesbø manages to build a whole amusement park on this usual garbage dump over and over again.
During your stay in this park, its staff manages to demonstrate a variety of aspects of their character. The author plays the same trump card, recognition for the second time, but again he does it with great skill, and surprises with the reliability of the images. Someone will quickly disappear from view, and someone will stay for a long time to accompany you to the very end. It is a pity that working on carousels is dangerous, and no one is immune from injuries and injuries. . .
From the Ferris wheel through binoculars, Norway is clearly visible both small and great, from Bergen and Oslofjord to scratched tables in the Schroeder Bar, from snow-capped mountains and forests to rooms in a cheap hotel near the Plaza. Details in the field of view gets a lot, but there are no superfluous among them, and the attentive reader is quite able to draw the necessary conclusions and independently determine the culprit.
However, really good in this park roller coaster plot. Nesbø is an excellent intrigue engineer, and it is almost impossible to predict where the bizarre rails will lead the next moment. It remains only in admiration to shout, belatedly realizing that in fact another “unexpected” and shocking turn has long loomed somewhere in the distance.
I share the opinion of many readers that the Snowman (and Leopard, books 7 and 8) is the peak of his creative skill. So the story of a serial killer cutting off the heads of married women, and an investigator who must stop him, I am ready to praise and praise. Here the composition is already very good, and it perfectly fits the complex design of a logical and verified plot. And the drinking and suffering policeman leaves far behind his neo-noir brothers, drinking and suffering simply because the genre dictates, since the psychological background of the inner throwing of the heroes is finally revealed with the necessary completeness. The personal drama of Harry and the four other central characters is clear and thematically multifaceted – and serves not only as a starting point for most of the storylines, but ultimately as a poetic conclusion. In the process of reading, analogies with the pillars of a thoughtful suspense are flashed in my head: Alfred Hitchcock (only more bloody), then Thomas Harris (only more dynamic).
Why would a movie based on such a wonderful novel not be liked by people who read the text? It's very simple: because Thomas Alfredson's film doesn't follow the book at all. Of course, the content of a seven-hundred-page brick, saturated with both vicissitudes and meanings, is difficult to pinch to two hours of screen time, and nothing to lose. Abbreviated.