Rant-vent-writing, will delete if it pisses off too many people.
Please don't take anything in this block of text seriously, it's pure opinion and if you disagree, it's more constructive to just hit that backspace-button and get outta here, 'cause you'll sooner see a concrete wall budge before me. Also, keep in mind that I'm Danish and therefore harbour a deep, in-bred hatred for all things Swedish. Well, not really, but still.

Okay, so you created a riveting murder-mystery with an edgy main-character dressed to kill and widely appeal to the more alternative mindsets among youngsters and oldies alike who tend to think punk isn’t quite dead yet, regardless of the many, many times its been beaten to the ground with a pointy stick.
True, she looks neat and is definitely a new take on the damsel in distress-role of ancient yore, effectively removing the “in distress”-part and arguably the “damsel”-part too, having the broad run around looking more spiky than a hedgehog on meth.
But this still doesn’t stop me from disliking everything about the Swedish angst-fest currently running wild on TV, fuelled by the rabid screams of fangirls, -boys and –mothers all over the globe.
Lisbeth Fi-what’erface might be an interesting and engaging character, but that doesn’t give everyone the right to rub her in my face at any given moment just because I used to own a slightly spiky collar which I’d sometimes use to scare the neighbours for cheap laughs.
Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against that lovely Swedish thriller which has successfully scorched the book- and television-market for an excessive amount of time by now, I’m just incredibly tired of seeing it around every damn corner, waving alluringly at me in its black leather boots and Matrix-inspired matching coat, tempting me closer only to have me snap back to my mainstream-hating senses in the knick of time and tell it to stick it and sod off.
Alright, so shoot me for being biased, but when something as already dodgey-looking as a Swedish thriller which digs its cow-tipping claws eagerly into the less-than-mainstream mentalities and fashion-trends starts showing up everywhere, juggling its enlarged nads at me, I tend to pull the plug.
Especially if said nads seem to be gold-plated and diamond-studded due to nothing else than the excessive amounts of attention and money it’s been getting since its creation in that most unholy of lands.
All in all, I generally don’t care about Men Who Hate Women and whichever sequels it might have spawned, just keep it out of my face and I won’t be forced to club it to the ground in a frustrated hissy-fit of pent-up irritation and lack of interest.