Avenger in distress: a semiotic study of Lisbeth Salander, rape-revenge and ideology

ABSTRACT

Culturally constructed ideals and stereotypes are part of collective sense-making processes. One such stereotype is Nils Christie's ideal victim. The present study discusses how the ideal victim shares key features with another cultural stereotype: the damsel in distress. Moreover, the study addresses attempts at subverting such stereotypes, which can be found in the women avengers of rape-revenge narratives. Studies of rape-revenge narratives have elucidated how such stories (re)imagine rape victimhood and survival in Western and Nordic culture, in ways that question the ideal victim qua damsel and her underlying patriarchal ideologies from a feminist perspective. However, such critique has led to the creation of other stereotypes and ideologically complex and even problematic portrayals of rape and victimization. Through a semiotic analysis of portrayals of a popular rape-revenge protagonist, Lisbeth Salander, the present study discusses how different ideologies surface, converse, and collide in fictional narratives of rape, survival, victimhood, revenge, and retribution. The study finds that while embodying resistance to the damsel, Lisbeth Salander also embodies aspects of the patriarchal ideologies that keep the damsel in place, thus creating an ideologically complex image. This creates a space for questioning the cultural understanding of rape, victimhood, and resistance.

KEYWORDS:

• Sexual violence
• rape-revenge
• ideology
• ideal victims
• feminist criminology
• victimology
• visual criminology

Imag(inari)es of Victimization

Studies have shown how horror and fascination impact societies’ understanding of crime, violence, and victimization (Berrington & Honkatukia 2002; Picart & Greek 2007). Stereotypes and preconceptions underpin much of our social and cultural understanding of (il)legitimate victimhood (Holcomb et al., 2004; V. D. Young, 1986). Gendered stereotypes and horror iconography are prevalent in sensationalist portrayals of violence and victimization – an interplay that has been elucidated both with specific reference to women’s victimization and their own violence, and in cultural criminology more broadly (e.g. Grabe et al., 2006; Henry, 2014; Picart, 2006; Wiest, 2016; A Young, 2009). Such portrayals often exhibit Nils Christie’s ideal victim (Christie, 1986/2001; O’Brien, 2019), a classic theoretical device in victimology that shares key characteristics with a decidedly fictional figure: the damsel in distress (Chaplin 2011). As a stereotype dependent on normative ideas of age, ethnicity, class, and gender, the ideal victim tends to be a young, white, middle-class woman. She is often found in culture, from classics like The Little Red Riding Hood to contemporary Disney- and Hollywood productions. As a critical device, the ideal victim sheds light on how norms play into notions of respectability and (il)legitimate victim status (Holcomb et al., 2004; V. D. Young, 1986). While the ideal victim is a useful analytical tool in studies of normative depictions and constructions of victimhood (O’Brien, 2019; V. D. Young, 1986), the underlying ideologies that bind the ideal victim to the damsel in distress are brought to light less frequently.

The ideal victim is part of a semiotic set. She depends on the simultaneous construction of equally ideal villains and saviours (Christie, 1986/2001; O’Brien, 2019). The ideal victim shares these defining traits with the damsel in distress. They are both built on the idea of submission to, and need of rescue by, patriarchal rules and powers (Wester, 2012). Both the damsel and the ideal victim have been defined as weak, fair (and fair-skinned) maidens attacked by threatening, overpowering, and often strange men, and as needing rescue by heroic patriarchs (Christie, 1986/2001; O’Brien, 2019; Wester, 2012). As such, they can be read as stereotypical portraits of heteronormative, Eurocentric femininity. Studies have investigated how resistance to this stereotype has played out in rape-revenge stories (e.g. Henry 2014; A Young, 2009). Such stories (re)imagine victimhood in modern, western cultures, both visually and narratively (Henry, 2014). This film genre emerged in the 1970s, and ‘the acts of rape displayed in a rape-revenge story are usually those consonant with stereotypes and myths about “real” rape’ (A Young, 2009, p. 44). In these stories, the damsel is often replaced by the avenging woman – a survivor, rather than a victim, and an enactor of ‘violent retribution’ (A Young, 2009, p. 44). This article discusses the ideal victim and her ties to damsels in distress and the women avengers of rape-revenge narratives, through a semiotic analysis of Lisbeth Salander as an intermedial, paratextual figure. As a victim, damsel, and avenger, Lisbeth enables an interrogation of underlying ideologies as well as their meaning for the cultural (re)production and understanding of victimhood. What stereotypes do Lisbeth, as a massively popular cultural figure, embody? What ideologies lurk in this embodiment, and how can unveiling them deepen our understanding of the broader discourse surrounding sexual violence, victimhood, and resistance?

From damsels to avengers

Christie defines the ideal victim as a person or a category of people who receive complete and legitimate status as victims when they are subjected to crime (Christie, 1986/2001). He goes on to exemplify the ideal victim as a virginal woman on her way home from visiting sick relatives, who is accosted by a strange man whom she tries to fight off until she is eventually overpowered and subsequently raped (Christie, 1986/2001). In short, the ideal victim is blameless, and therefore worthy of sympathy and support. Importantly, the ideal victim has little to do with actual victims of crime, and more to do with stereotypical, often detrimental, collective ideas about victimhood and victimization, as well as stereotypical ideas about offenders as monstrous Others. For example, studies show that the whiteness of the ideal victim has negative effects on Black victims of violence (Holcomb et al., 2004; V. D. Young, 1986). As a stereotype based on heteronormative femininity, the ideal victim embodies the values of colonial, patriarchal ideology (see Chandler, 2017).

The ideal victim, like the damsel, is an abstract concept that presupposes her equally abstract opposites: heroes and villains (O’Brien, 2019). For the ideal victim to function as a critical device, she needs to be different from her opposites, the villain and the hero, since difference is what renders ideal types analytically useful (Chandler, 2002; Christie, 1986/2001). As such, the ideal victim has to be the polar opposite of the ideal offender (Christie, 1986/2001; O’Brien, 2019); they both presuppose and recreate one another. This leaves no room for the ambiguities of other figures, such as the avenging woman (Henry, 2014). Unlike the ideal victim qua damsel in distress, the avenger relies on her own strength – often refusing the help and protection of a (patriarchal) hero.

Since the ideal victim embodies stereotypical, patriarchal images of femininity as passive and in need of protection, the ideal victim is a typical damsel in distress. The further a woman strays from this cultural image of the damsel, the less of an ideal victim she becomes. By extension, the offender becomes less of a villain the less ideal his victim becomes (Christie, 1986/2001). As Christie puts it, society considers it its interest to protect (respectable) women from ‘monsters lurking in the streets’ (Christie, 1986/2001:49, my translation), hinting at a horror-iconographic imagination at play in the social construction of ideal victims. The avenging woman also relies on horror-iconographic cultural expressions, but does so in ways that complicate the separation and opposition of the victim, hero, and offender (cf. Henry, 2014).

Victims and vengeance

In popular culture, the ideal victim often surfaces as the damsel in distress – however, it also surfaces more implicitly: through its absence, and in resistance to such portrayals of victims. Kramer stresses that popular culture is rife with imagery that depicts men’s violence towards women, and that this should be considered as the ultimate consequence of patriarchal heteronormativity rather than a deviation from it (Kramer, 1997, pp. 28–9). In response (and resistance) to this, rape-revenge narratives and their women avengers were born from the feminist movement of the 1970’s (Clover, 1992:16; A Young, 2009, p. 44).

Like the damsel in distress, women avengers are largely at home within horror iconography. While rape-revenge is often regarded as a subgenre within horror, it has been claimed that it is more complex than that, and can be regarded as its own genre as well as a narrative theme within other genres (Henry, 2014). Whether genre, subgenre, or theme, rape-revenge subverts the notion of women as passive victims of violence. Instead, these narratives present women as overcoming, surviving, and avenging (Åström et al., 2013; Henry, 2014). These stories have ‘a very clear structure’ (A Young, 2009, p. 44), and the avenging woman is generally subjected to graphic, sexual violence perpetrated by one or several men early on in the narrative. This is followed by the story of how she overcomes her victimization and reclaims her sense of self through – often bloody – revenge (Åström et al., 2013; Henry, 2014; A Young, 2009). For the avenging woman, patriarchal powers are the source of suffering rather than salvation. Unlike the damsel in distress, the avenging woman attains retribution against, rather than being aided by, patriarchal powers. Importantly, the women themselves (occasionally with the help of other women), and not heroic men, drive the narrative towards redemption (Clover, 1992, p. 16). Moreover, it is not uncommon for these narratives to incorporate critique of the heteronormativity associated with the damsel through queer or lesbian themes (e.g. in Monster). In these cases, queer characters and loving relationships among women can serve as stark contrasts to stories’ otherwise cold, hypermasculine, and violent settings (cf. Franco, 2003:4; Henry, 2014, p. 144).

In short, rape-revenge subverts the well-known damsel stereotype, which is heavily patriarchal. In its place, rape-revenge presents a feminist ideology where patriarchal protection is unwanted, detrimental, or dangerous. Without awareness of the patriarchal ideology that suffuses images of women’s victimization through tropes like the damsel, the ideology of rape-revenge narratives might be less evident or impactful as a form of resistance. Rape-revenge narratives are highly ideological, positing the viewer or reader alongside the avenging woman as she suffers and subsequently retaliates (Henry, 2014; Horeck, 2013; A Young, 2009). As such, viewers are made to sympathize with her and find satisfaction and catharsis in her revenge – even when it is even bloodier than the initial assault (Henry, 2014; Horeck, 2013). As Young puts it, we must agree that the ‘rape was indeed that bad’ (A Young, 2009, p. 45), in order for the ensuing vengeance to make narrative sense.

Given the often explicit visual depictions of rape and violence common to rape-revenge, the genre has been criticized for reproducing the very stereotypes and social issues it aims to change (Henry, 2014; Horeck, 2013). This critique has been met by claims that the function as well as the framing of the depicted violence are different, which in turn makes its meaning different: For instance, in other genres the camera work in rape scenes are often adapted to a male gaze, while rape-revenge resists this, tending to position the viewer in ways that desexualize the scene and enhance the violent, rather than the sexual, aspects of sexual violence (see Henry, 2014; Horeck, 2013). Moreover, the depictions of rape and violence in rape-revenge narratives are often framed in ways that question distinctions between non/ideal victimhood, passivity, agency, and gender (Horeck, 2013, p. 161). Rape-revenge narratives blur the boundaries of acceptable depictions of femininity, particularly through mixing femininity with traditionally masculine elements like vigilante justice, which tends to be associated with male superheroes (Clover, 1992). In this way, the avenging woman contrasts the damsel in distress, who would depend on the agency of a male saviour.

The damsel in distress can be read metaphorically, as an embodiment of cultural anxieties regarding gender, sexuality, or nationality. As such, violating the virginal damsel becomes symbolic of violating heteronormative values, the purity of the motherland, and the laws of patriarchal states qua possessive fathers (Wester, 2012, p. 7). In this sense, the damsel in distress often incorporates sexist as well as racist ideologies. Of course, the avenging woman can also be read as a metaphor. Here, too, rapists are ‘typically characterized as extremely repulsive’ and monstrous (Lehman 1993:107), in ways that draw on societal ideas of class, race, and other intersectional markers to render them Other in the given societal context (Henry, 2014, p. 15). In this sense, the rapists of the rape-revenge genre are near indistinguishable from Christie’s ideal perpetrator (Christie, 1986/2001) – they are unknown, dark, villainous figures with no real characterization outside of their violent behaviour. Again, this shows how horror iconography is present in the victimological field. While the rapist is similar regardless of whether he assaults the damsel or the avenger, the narrative’s response to him differs. Keeping in mind that rape-revenge sprung from feminist resistance (Clover, 1992), Henry highlights the power struggles symbolized by the avenging woman’s plight (Henry, 2013, p. 175). Clover similarly emphasizes how these struggles unveil double layers in the narrative, where ‘the revenge of the woman on her rapist’ becomes coextensive with things like ‘the revenge of the [progressive] city [which she signifies] on the [conservative, uneducated] country [signified by her rapist]’ (Clover, 1992, p. 115).

Lisbeth Salander as an avenger in distress

Lisbeth Salander, from Stieg Larsson’s Millennium trilogy and their subsequent film adaptations, can be considered one of contemporary fiction’s most recognizable heroines, and one of the clearest embodiments of the victim/survivor (Åström et al., 2013). In short, her story details both her personal journey from rags to riches, along with a traumatizing rape-revenge arc, and a broader story of men’s violence against women where Lisbeth aids in the investigation of a missing person (who, in the end, turns out to have lived her own rape-revenge story). While Lisbeth has been lauded as a complex feminist icon, her assailant comes across as her polar opposite in his stereotypical simplicity. As such, the story features trademarks of a rape-revenge narrative; a developed woman protagonist and a violent, revolting male antagonist (Henry, 2014; A Young, 2009).

Scholars have emphasized how Lisbeth’s characterization is driven by her victimhood (Åström et al., 2013; Henry, 2013). This victimhood has been woven into her story throughout her life, from a violent childhood to sexual abuse in adulthood (Henry, 2013, p. 178). The sexual violence that Lisbeth suffers is depicted differently in different types of media. For instance, Henry notes how the books focus on the rapist as a criminal engaged in violent, abusive actions, whereas the film adaptations shift their focus to Lisbeth’s (and, by proxy, the viewer’s) feelings of vulnerability, outrage, and disgust (Henry, 2013, p. 179). Where the book seems more occupied with questions of criminality and deviance, the films prefer to centre the victim’s emotions. This shift arguably mirrors ideological standpoints.

Scholars have also pointed out that Lisbeth Salander can be read as the embodiment of a post-feminist, individualistic ideology that applauds vigilante justice – as we can see in the narratives’ treatment of Lisbeth’s revenge (Henry, 2013:183; Horeck, 2013, p. 157). Since there are several interpretations of what Lisbeth embodies, we can consider her as a collision of different ideologies or stereotypes (cf. Åström et al., 2013, p. 5). As an intermedial phenomenon, i.e. a figure that is comprised of several medial forms, she embodies both the damsel in distress and the avenging woman. As such, she is a creature of contradictions. Intermediality deals with how a portrayal of something in culture bears traces of other portrayals of that same thing (Elleström, 2010, p. 31). For example, this happens in adaptations from books to films, and from Swedish to Hollywood film productions (see Elleström, 2010; Wolf, 1999). This intermediality is interesting from a victimological point of view, since it moves Lisbeth’s characterization back and forth along the scale from victim to survivor. As a result, her embodiment as a victim or a survivor, a damsel or an avenger, varies between (and within) her various cultural forms (see Wolf, 1999, pp. 35–6). Lisbeth can be read as a metaphor for feminist resistance (see Jakobson, 1974; Lodge, 1977), which is a key theme in rape-revenge narratives. Then again, she might as well be a fetishization of feminism, in line with patriarchal ideals and stereotypes (see Åström et al., 2013, p. 6). We can see this in her aesthetics as well as her story, since both are presented as enigmas for the men around her to solve. Moreover, Lisbeth could also be read as resistance to a failing, corrupt, patriarchal welfare state, which would put her back in a feminist camp (Henry, 2013). These colliding interpretations emphasize how rival ideologies lurk in the intermediality of Lisbeth Salander. By studying Lisbeth’s paratextual representation, I aim to explore this further.

Methodology

Wearing semiotic glasses, we can unpack what stereotypes are (re)produced in popular culture’s representation of victimization, from what perspective, and how these things speak to underlying ideologies (Chandler, 2002). Picturing things is often a metaphorical process, where we make sense of things by symbolically relating them to other things (Chandler, 2002, p. 150). This process creates meaning and categories, and confers symbolic value. Since our (verbal or visual) representations of things (re)create meaning, we can study these representations to unearth what lies beneath them. By doing so, we can dig into how stereotypes and visual displays perpetuate, critique, or subvert discursive positions of power (Chandler, 2002; Jakobson, 1974). As such, a semiotic approach to victimology is at home in the growing field of visual criminology (see Brown & Carrabine, 2017). Semiotic methods are common in visual criminology, since this field interrogates the power of visual representations of harm, suffering and violence (cf. Carrabine, 2012).

In short, how we depict and discuss different phenomena says something about how we understand them. Consider, for instance, a glass of water. Is it half-full, or half-empty? This is not a question of measuring the correct volume of liquid, but a metaphorical way of discerning whether we view it in a positive or negative light. This shows how turns of phrase can be contradictory, even when they describe the same material reality (Chandler, 2002, p. 149). Similarly, a discourse of rape victims is not the same as one of the rape survivors. These terms align with the damsel and the avenger, respectively. More importantly, these terms emphasize different things, thereby revealing different underlying ideologies. Where the victim is dejected, weak, and needing support, the survivor is strong in the face of adversity, refusing to be diminished by what has happened. These terms highlight different aspects of how we understand and depict the needs, reactions, and capabilities of people who are raped.

As a cultural figure, Lisbeth Salander is an intermedial embodiment of both victimhood and survival. Given the popularity of the Millennium-series, Lisbeth has been created and recreated through text, film, fashion, and graphic novels. Whatever form she takes, she is always surrounded by paratext. How Lisbeth is (re)created through paratext is the focus of this study. Paratext is information that surrounds the main event (Genette, 1990), such as film trailers; posters; title sequences of films; and even titles of instalments in the series. Put simply, paratext gives us an idea of what to expect. For example, given the sharp, dark, and dreary look of the Millennium-series’ cover designs, we would be hard pressed to think we are in for a comedy. Paratexts are symbolically dense expressions, since they squeeze a lot of meaningful content into a small space. This symbolic denseness makes paratexts especially suited to studies of underlying ideologies. Moreover, since paratext rarely makes sense without its main text, this study relates the paratext to the books and films themselves. As such, the analysis touches on the main rape-revenge arc of Lisbeth’s over-all story. However, the main texts are not the main focus of this article.

In practice, this analysis has involved searching for and ‘close-reading’ relevant paratextual depictions of Lisbeth, such as posters, clothing collections, titles, and title sequences, and analysing their ideological content while relating them to the over-all story of Millennium. My semiotic approach to paratext entails paying close attention to how symbolic objects (such as clothing, weapons, make-up, or even bodies), colours, lighting, word-choice, camera angles, and sound design coalesce to present an over-all impression. This also involves examining how symbolically charged events (such as rape and revenge) rely on underlying ideological assumptions to make sense, and how this is expressed in paratext. In studying Lisbeth Salander as an intermedial figure, my focus lies on the pop-cultural double of Christie’s ideal victim – the damsel in distress, and her avenging opposite. These two figures are the central critical devices of this article, since they help make underlying ideologies visible.

Moral high ground or crisis?

Lisbeth’s story features double layers of narration that render Lisbeth’s revenge against her rapist symbolic of class struggles (since he is her legal guardian), as well as feminist struggles against patriarchal oppression (not least shown by the first book’s original title, which translates to Men Who Hate Women). The structural layer of this story is furthered by a plotline revolving around secret societies and abusive men in positions of power – as such both Lisbeth’s arc and the story at large revolve around misogyny. Lisbeth’s revenge against her rapist therefore mirrors a wider narrative of feminist revenge against misogyny, both in- and outside the law (cf. A Young, 2009, p. 56). Moreover, Lisbeth’s intermediality exemplifies how a character can embody different, sometimes contrary, ideologies, depending on where you find her (cf. Elleström, 2010; Wolf, 1999). She oscillates between the damsel in distress and the avenging woman. However, the abuse she has suffered takes centre stage in her characterization regardless of where she stands. Moreover, her revenge is central to her character development. Importantly, this revenge is highly symbolic. For one thing, it is carefully orchestrated to put her rapist through what he put her through, physically and visually. After catching him by surprise with a Taser and subjecting him to the same kinds of sexual violence he subjected her to, she leaves him tied up, made to watch a video recording of the initial assault – he is made to feel, as well as watch, her pain. A tattoo constitutes another highly symbolic element of this revenge: Lisbeth tattoos her assailant, literally labelling him as a rapist across his chest. With this, he has to bear a physical trace of the initial assault, much like her. Between the tattoo, the video recording, and the re-enactment, Lisbeth’s revenge is made up almost entirely of symbols of the initial assault. However, unlike in many other rape-revenge stories (see A Young, 2009, p. 56), Lisbeth does not kill her rapist. Later on, she instead relies on the video recording yet again, surprising her assailant and others by playing it in court, thus ensuring his conviction. Here, she uses the courtroom rather than the Taser to surprise and overpower her assailant. The use of symbolism in Lisbeth’s revenge both underscores and resists her victim- or damsel status, relying on it to negate it. Needing the aid of a courtroom underscores her victim status, but the way it is used adds to Lisbeth’s vindictive, vigilante agency. Here, she embodies ambivalence about revenge, since she both enacts it as an avenger, yet relies on (patriarchal) law to redeem her like a damsel. The narrative thus reminds us of her victimization, using it to stage a symbolically charged revenge.

Scholars have pointed out that rape-revenge narratives cause moral crises by relying on symbolic violence (Henry, 2013, 2014; Horeck, 2013; A Young, 2009). For example, violent depictions of rape ‘perpetuate the notion that rape must be seen before it can be condemned’ (A Young, 2009, p. 70), aligning these cultural depictions with problems of real rape victims’/survivors’ stories not being believed. Moreover, since rape-revenge narratives position the viewer to sympathize with the victim and sanction her actions, Lisbeth’s literal rape-revenge makes violent rape into something that is both morally reprehensible and a form of sanctioned retribution. Here, the avenging woman inevitably mirrors the villain’s actions. Studies have explored whether this ruins her ideological, moral high-ground or gives her violence an inherently different meaning (see Henry, 2013, 2014; Horeck, 2013). At what point does vigilante justice become abuse? How do we differentiate between them? Why are we disgusted with Lisbeth’s assailant, but not with her when she does the same things? This relates to how the viewer/reader is positioned, which is a question of ideology. We are positioned to agree with her. But what is it we agree with? Metaphorically speaking, Lisbeth fights fire with fire. Alternatively, she could be putting out fire (patriarchal oppression) with gasoline (equally violent resistance and retribution). This ideological collision that Lisbeth embodies is present throughout her story. Moreover, fire as equally cleansing and destructive is a recurring symbolic theme in her arc. Literally, fire recurs in the plot through the motif of violent men burning to death in their cars with her watching (and causing) it. Paratextually, it occurs in titles such as The Girl Who Played with Fire, and as Phoenix imagery in title sequences.

Fashion and fetishism

The Swedish film adaptation of the Millennium-trilogy led to a subsequent Hollywood film, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (2011), which in turn inspired a collection at H&M (2011). As such, we can add fast fashion to the list of Lisbeth’s embodiments as an intermedial, paratextual figure. Like the books and films, the H&M collection contributed to the social understanding of what Lisbeth is and represents. Its release brought on both praise and scorn. Mainly, this collection was criticized for sexualizing a rape survivor’s aesthetic. Critics made the argument that the collection sexualized an aesthetic of victimization and rape survival, thereby subverting Lisbeth as a feminist icon (see Åström et al., 2013, p. 6). In the grand scheme of Lisbeth as a pop culture phenomenon, she thus became more of a fetish and less of a feminist figurehead. Lisbeth’s aesthetic signals distance; dark, sharp, and androgynous, her personal dress code deliberately opposes heteronormative rules for feminine sex appeal (see Lodge, 1977). With H&M’s collection, a look that was meant to repel the male gaze mutated into a cleaner, sexier, aesthetic. Here, she is nether victim nor survivor of sexual abuse – only the (heterosexual) sex remains. These male-gaze-oriented fashions and photos disregarded Lisbeth’s queerness (exemplified both by her girlfriend and her non-subservience in sexual acts with men), as well as sexualized her androgynous expression. Through this, the collection fuelled the ideological tug of war that pulls on Lisbeth as a cultural figure. On one side, we have a dress code that explicitly signals resistance to the male gaze and male desire (see Chandler, 2002). On the other, we find the commercial sexualization of that dress code. The collection seems designed to fetishize, (hetero)sexualize, and soften her expression, thus incorporating it into a heteronormative logic rather than letting it stand as a critique against it. The collection can also be criticized because of the capitalist logics of fast fashion, and for making an ‘alternative’ aesthetic ‘mainstream’. These logics distanced the collection from the idea of Lisbeth as a feminist- and queer figure. However, these critiques are rooted in the view of Lisbeth as an embodiment of feminism in the first place. The upset this clothing line caused proves that Lisbeth is a semiotically interesting case, since critique against it centred on the question of what she symbolizes and embodies.

A similar ideological tug of war played out on the posters that accompanied the release of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (2011). These posters decorated various public places in anticipation of the film’s release, and one poster design in particular made Lisbeth’s aesthetic similar to that of H&M’s clothing line. This poster is a black and white, half-length portrait shot of Lisbeth (played by Rooney Mara) and the story’s male protagonist Mikael Blomkvist (played by Daniel Craig). Lisbeth’s upper body is naked, and her pants are low-cut and appear partially unbuttoned. Her nakedness is both literal and figurative (see Kress, 1996), since this shot also shows her embraced from behind by a fully clothed Mikael. Here, Lisbeth has been stripped of most of the attributes she relies on to signal resistance and opposition – her clothing style – in favour of the protective (or restrictive) arm of a man. As an image of feminine nakedness-as-weakness and masculine protection, it causes her to look more like a damsel in distress than an avenging woman. As paratext, this poster gives the idea of a masculine hero an unreasonably central role in Lisbeth’s story. The poster promises nudity rather than agency, again fetishizing Lisbeth as a mystery for the men around her – both in the story and the audience – to unravel (Åström et al., 2013, p. 6). Moreover, it emphasizes heterosexuality, despite Lisbeth’s canonical queerness. However, the damsel is not the only trope visible in this poster. Lisbeth faces the camera with a neutral, unbothered expression, meeting the viewer’s gaze rather than averting her own. Moreover, she has a full face of dark makeup on, and along with her short and sharp hairdo the colours and lighting of the image make it a far cry from a glamour shot. Additionally, her pose is not particularly suggestive, while she does place one of her hands on Mikael’s arm, this does not come across as inherently sexual. This raises the question of whether we need to regard her nudity as weakness and sexualization, or if it can also signal empowerment. Arguably, equating feminine nudity with weakness or other negative traits runs the risk of stigmatizing said nudity further. However, while it is tempting to read her nudity as empowerment, the fact that Lisbeth is played by a heteronormatively attractive, thin, white actress, and is juxtaposed by a fully clothed man, detracts from this interpretation. Her nakedness, here and in other adaptations, is always in line with patriarchal beauty standards. Regardless of the darker, sharper styling and the noir aesthetic of this shot, it pulls Lisbeth towards fetishist rather than feminist ideas of ‘alternative’ looking women in general and the woman avenger in particular.

The title itself also carries symbolic information. As paratext, titles tell us something about the narrative we are about to experience. When it comes to Lisbeth, the title of her story changes along with other aspects of her intermediality. The original title of the first book and the Swedish film adaptation thereof, Män som hatar kvinnor, would translate to Men Who Hate Women. However, the English translation of the book and the Hollywood film opted to shift the title’s focus away from the structural layer of the story. Instead, the Hollywood title, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, focuses on Lisbeth – and much like the aforementioned poster, it does so by focusing on her body. This title reduces her from a fleshed-out character to a girlish, fetishized body. This deviates from the deliberately ideological main theme of the story – men’s hatred of and systematic violence against women. Through its objectifying title, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo engages in the patriarchal work that its story oftentimes aims to resist. By shifting its focus to Lisbeth as a body rather than an embodiment, the Hollywood adaptation objectifies, sexualizes, and fetishizes Lisbeth. This shift also changes her from a woman to a girl, effectively putting her in the age-range of the ideal victim. As such, the Hollywood adaptation emphasizes the damsel and tones down the avenger.

Informative imagery

In addition to clothing lines, titles, and posters, the films’ introductory title sequences also serve as interesting examples of paratext. Title sequences create a mood through the use of things like lighting- and cutting techniques, sound, and colours. Simply put, the intro to a comedy looks and sounds different from that of a horror film. The look and ‘feel’ of a title sequence thus say something about the subsequent film. In this section, I will discuss images presented in the title sequences of the Swedish film adaptation Millennium, and the Hollywood production The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.

In the Swedish adaptation, the intro foreshadows the story through a series of animated paintings. The look of these is dark, cold, and dreary. Moreover, the use of animation is sparse, and coupled with distinctive changes in the soundtrack. The use of animation and sound thus emphasizes certain events. This title sequence summarizes key events of the story, pertaining both to Lisbeth’s arc and the mystery she is enlisted in solving. As for Lisbeth, the intro summarizes the rape-revenge theme of her story in one scene. Here, we see her seemingly forced into a chair, in front of a man with his pants down. At first glance, she seems to have her hands tied behind her back. However, the angle shifts, revealing that rather than being tied, she is hiding a Taser. The Taser is emphasized as symbolic of Lisbeth’s revenge (see Chandler, 2002), as its crackling is embedded into the soundtrack while the ‘camera’ zooms in on it. Through this quick shift in tone from helpless damsel to active avenger, this scene encompasses her story arc – from initial abuse to eventual revenge. Going into the film itself, the intro has done away with any doubt about what Lisbeth will suffer, or how she will respond to it. In this way, the title sequence has resisted a reading of Lisbeth as a damsel or victim in the slow-paced film that follows, instead favouring an interpretation of her as an avenger or survivor.

Where the intro to the Swedish film boils elements of the story down to their essential components and presents them in summarized form, the Hollywood adaptation instead relies on a largely black-and-white, oily cavalcade of symbolic, somewhat abstract imagery. Rather than summarizing the story, this imagery focuses more (albeit not exclusively) on signifying Lisbeth’s character. In this way, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo’s title sequence, like its title, has shifted the focus from the story’s over-arching theme of men’s violence against women to its treatment of Lisbeth and her body. This intro represents the story through a liquid, shifting series of symbolically charged imagery, including women’s bodies subjected to violence, and items significant to Lisbeth’s arc (such as fire denoting several different traumas, money denoting the corruption and enforced poverty she fights, wasps to signify her alias, and keyboards to signify her professional skills). Drawing on how Lisbeth’s (back)story relates to fire, this title sequence foreshadows her abuse as well as her resistance metaphorically, through the use of a classic, mythological figure: The Phoenix. This intro features a bird flying upward while on fire, reminiscent of the Phoenix rising from the ashes. Here, familiarity with the Phoenix clues viewers into what kind of story lies ahead. Moreover, fire stands out as the only colourful element in this otherwise dark, monochrome title sequence. The idea of a ‘Phoenix moment’ is arguably a problematic aspect of rape in storytelling, since such moments presuppose that women need to be abused to later become powerful. The idea of abuse as empowering is arguably a sexist notion in and of itself, regardless of the story’s treatment of women as victims or survivors.

While the Phoenix is symbolic of Lisbeth’s strength and renewal, this focus on fire also signifies the importance of fire in Lisbeth’s punishment of violent men. As such, it ties into how fire has symbolic ties to purification – in this case, the purification of society through the (ironically violent) removal of patriarchal violence. This fiery focus thus underscores the importance of both violence and violent resistance for Lisbeth’s character. The Phoenix denotes key elements of the story relating to resistance, perseverance, and survival. However, there are subtler metaphors for resistance and overcoming adverse odds present in this title sequence as well. For instance, resistance is denoted through the editing; alternating between two sets of events. On the one hand, we see Lisbeth’s face covered and smothered by several large, presumably men’s, hands. Alternating with this image is the image of her covered by twisting vines. In the midst of the fast-paced cutting between the two, a flower unfurls into bloom. A flower, blossoming in the middle of black, oily, violent, and cold visual landscape. This juxtaposition of violence and resistance can be said to signify how Lisbeth reaches her potential, or even blooms, despite the abuse she suffers. However, representing her through floral, feminine imagery also serves to undermine her resistance, by expressing it through patriarchal ideas of normative femininity. Further conflating Lisbeth with flowers, we get a brief glimpse of Lisbeth’s face with these unfurled flowers for eyes. In this moment, we might note that these are Clematis flowers. The type of flower is interesting here. The symbolism of flowers has a long history in both mythology and fiction, and was used as a symbolically charged form of communication in Victorian times (Diffenbaugh, 2011, p. 4). Most people are familiar with the red rose as a token of love, but perhaps fewer of us know that the Clematis has a history of denoting mental beauty, as well as resilience, creativity, and artifice (Seaton, 1995). This is because of its ability to grow and prosper under adverse conditions – to work its way around difficulties and come out (figuratively and literally) on top. Drawing on, as well as with, Victorian floral symbolism thus helps this title sequence paint a picture of Lisbeth’s character.

Damsels in disguise

Like many women avengers in popular culture, Lisbeth is both troubled and troubling. She is a victim of and a threat to patriarchal order (cf. Christie, 1986/2001). While Lisbeth can be said to exist in opposition to the patriarchy’s preferred, submissive damsel, she is nonetheless depicted as ‘protected’ by patriarchs – as evidenced by the semi-nude poster for The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. While the avenger is often lauded as a pop-cultural embodiment of feminist resistance, she still relies on the inherently sexist ‘Phoenix moment’ of violent rape. This violence, in turn, is not only sexual but also frequently sexualized in popular culture (A Young, 2009, pp. 72–3), as evidenced here by the sexualizing commodification of Lisbeth’s suffering and aesthetic. The fetishization of her suffering ties into the sexualization of her survivor-avenger aesthetic, in film posters and clothing collections alike. In these cases, we see how the patriarchal ideology of the damsel lingers in the image of Lisbeth, undermining her usefulness as a feminist icon.

Moreover, Lisbeth is arguably a queer character. However, her queerness is largely ignored in her paratextual characterization, and its attempts to sexualize her aesthetic are male-gaze-oriented. The heteronormative, patriarchal logic she seeks to subvert thus incorporates her and softens her expression, thereby avoiding critiques she could otherwise embody. Importantly, Lisbeth’s embodiment is tied to her physical body, which is consequently (re)created as a heteronormatively attractive, girlish, white one. Her actions derive meaning from this, as well (cf. V. D. Young, 1986). Her nudity, ‘alternative’ style, (bi)sexual encounters, violence, rape, and revenge are all configured within the normative confines of the young, white damsel or ideal victim (cf. Christie, 1986/2001). While Lisbeth’s actions deviate from the damsel’s, her white, thin, often sexualized body does not. As an avenging woman, Lisbeth (like most avenging women) still relies on the damsel’s physical and social attributes for her violent retribution to become acceptable and to her audience. As such, she is not such a far cry from the patriarchal stereotype of the damsel in distress as her ‘feminist icon’ status would suggest. Coupled with her ‘bias toward individualism’, this makes her a post-feminist icon, at best (cf. Henry, 2014, p. 9). As an ideological figure, Lisbeth thus reproduces much of what she resists: sexual(ized) violence; heteronormative attractiveness; and toxically masculine, neoliberal ideals about solitary strength.

Using a semiotic approach, we can make underlying ideologies visible. This can be a valuable step in victimology’s theoretical development. Since there is no beyond ideology (Žižek, 1997/2008), critique of the damsel in distress and her underlying patriarchal ideology does not entail cancelling ideology as such. Instead, this critique has entailed moving into a feminist ideology, embodied by the woman avenger (Clover, 1992; Henry, 2014). However, this motion takes place along a rather bumpy road. Lisbeth Salander exists in an ideologically grey area, comprised of both the damsel in need of saving and the vengeful vigilante. While this could be considered as resulting in a victim-hero figure, characterized by her suffering and efforts to redeem herself (cf. Wright, 2016), the kinds of violence in Lisbeth’s retribution complicate the idea of her as heroic. While she embodies critique of the damsel and her need for patriarchal protection, she also embodies aspects of the patriarchal logic feminism would oppose, such as vigilantism and violent corporal punishment. Lisbeth’s revenge thus relies on the assumption that victims, unlike survivors, are weak, and weakness is inherently bad. Needing support is discarded in favour of taking care of things alone. Here, she regrettably goes full circle, becoming a reproduction of the patriarchal values she resists as a self-made, violent vigilante. This also extends to questions of Nordic welfare ideology. Henry suggests that Lisbeth reads as ‘the ultimate victim/avenger in a corrupt welfare state’ (Henry, 2013, p. 175). However, by her vigilante resistance to its corruption, Lisbeth embodies the ‘every man for himself’ individualism that a functioning welfare state precludes (cf. Henry, 2014, p. 147).

A semiotic analysis of Lisbeth Salander reveals how the ‘materialization of ideology in external materiality [e.g. the avenger as an embodiment of feminism] reveals inherent antagonisms which the explicit formulation of ideology cannot afford to acknowledge [i.e. the avenger’s glorification of the violence she opposes]’ (Žižek, 1997/2008, p. 2). This unsettles the idea of the woman avenger as a feminist icon. It also raises questions of victim-offender overlap, since rape-revenge stories cause moral upset when viewers grapple with alternatively recoiling from and rooting for the same kinds of violence. While rape leaves the audience angry, sad, or nauseous, revenge delivers satisfying retribution to characters and viewers alike (Horeck, 2013, p. 13). The same violence thus yields different responses due to the representation’s ideological positioning of its viewers. Since the audience is positioned to sympathize with Lisbeth, her violent refusal of a victim status becomes problematic in the grand scheme of the discourse surrounding rape and responses to it. Even with a heightened awareness of the patriarchal view of women’s victimization that underpins the damsel in distress, the underlying ideology of the avenging woman remains problematic as a form of feminist resistance. Instead of resisting patriarchal values, revenge incorporates them. Rather than embodying feminist- or welfare ideologies’ resistance to patriarchal violence, Lisbeth becomes the embodiment of masculinized, ‘only the strong survive’ ideals. Her story thus makes being a victim of men’s violence a bigger threat than the violence itself – especially since the same violence is applauded when Lisbeth enacts it. This makes survival a needlessly violent concept; more retribution than resistance. This also elucidates problems with aggrandizing survival by juxtaposing it to victimhood in cultural representations of rape. This juxtaposition risks perpetuating patriarchal power dynamics, and as a result there is no strength in daring to be weak or vulnerable. By such juxtapositions, popular culture shows the rape victim as a negatively coded counterpart to the rape survivor, thus mirroring a neoliberal, individualistic discourse on rape and responses to it.

Disclosure statement

No potential conflict of interest was reported by the author.