By Abby Garnett
By Amy Nicholson
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Inkoo Kang
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Amy Nicholson
By Mood Indigo, reviewed
By Stephanie Zacharek
Ridley Scott's Hannibal, with a screenplay by David Mamet and Steven Zaillian, is being released exactly ten years after Silence of the Lambs, the film that established Hannibal Lecter as an iconic villain in our culture, right up there with Nightmare on Elm Street's Freddy Krueger, Friday the 13th's Jason and Halloween's Michael Myers -- though one suspects that novelist Thomas Harris was shooting for something more like Professor Moriarty. Director Jonathan Demme's original film not only managed to transcend the shackles of genre, it did so in spades: What was essentially a glossy, upscale slasher movie won five Academy Awards (picture, director, adapted screenplay, actor and actress), only the third film ever to do so. Add its phenomenal financial success to that, and you have a nearly irresistible demand for a sequel -- particularly given the blatant setup at the end of the movie.
Even though I wasn't a fan of Silence, it had some admirable traits, in particular the charismatic performances of Anthony Hopkins as the bizarre Dr. Lecter and Jodie Foster as conflicted FBI agent Clarice Starling. Demme, an alumnus of Roger Corman's B-movie factory, knew how to crank up the thrills, yet he threw in at least one cheap red herring that Corman would never have sanctioned -- the deliberately misleading cross-cutting during the police raid late in the film. The only elements that stopped this scene and the story's other flaws from sinking the film were the dazzling leads.
Hannibal has Hopkins -- but not Foster, who declined to participate. Julianne Moore steps in to replace her, and she's about as good a replacement as you could hope for, which is not to say that she's much more than adequate. Foster's amazing performance is so ingrained in the popular consciousness that Moore is forced to play against memories of the best work of one of her best contemporaries. Forced into doing what often seems like a Vegas impression of her predecessor, Moore is never able to imbue her character with the level of complex and ambivalent emotions that Foster conveyed.
The screenplay follows Harris's 1999 novel, excising one major character and a few extraneous subplots. The biggest changes come toward the end: Harris's book so ridiculously and unbelievably violated Starling's character that no one would have been foolish enough to reproduce the material on screen.
In the grand action-film tradition, things start off with a shoot-'em-up sequence in Washington, D.C., that has only tangential relevance to what follows. Starling leads an ill-fated drug bust that results in bureaucratic attacks on her competence, spearheaded by the crass and politically ambitious Paul Krendler (Ray Liotta), a justice department official who's had it in for her ever since she refused his sexual advances. Her new notoriety draws a weirdly supportive letter from the fugitive Lecter, who has been missing for seven years. Thanks to this development, she is reassigned to his case and is quickly hot on his trail. Even hotter on his trail, however, is meat-packing multimillionaire Mason Verger (Gary Oldman), a pedophile who was paralyzed and hideously mutilated from an encounter with the good doctor many years earlier. Verger wants to catch Lecter before the FBI does, so that he can personally torture him with a slow death.
Verger pretends to cooperate with Starling, but he is funding his own manhunt, offering a $3,000,000 reward for information that leads him to Lecter. It is a sign of the film's sloppy plotting that Verger picks up Lecter's trail for reasons utterly coincidental to Starling's involvement. While investigating a missing-persons case in Florence, Italian police inspector Rinaldo Pazzi (Giancarlo Giannini) has recognized newly hired museum curator Dr. Fell as Lecter. Pazzi keeps his information secret from his colleagues, hoping to collect Verger's reward. When Pazzi's plans go wildly awry, Lecter escapes to America, where he locates Starling and manages to avoid Verger's armies of henchmen.
The narrative structure couldn't be more rickety and lopsided if a child had built it out of Popsicle sticks and spit. In Silence, we were clearly positioned with Starling, even though the immediate point of view often switched to the crazed killer or his victim. In Hannibal, the filmmakers spend nearly half the film dithering about in a subplot that has little relevance to the relationship at the heart of the story -- the strange bond between Lecter and Starling.
On some level, however, this is a relief: A large part of what made Silence work was the enigma and ambiguity of the central relationship. A sequel had no choice but to examine this further, even though the relationship never made much sense in the first place and was convincing almost entirely due to the power of Foster's performance. (Foster wisely opted out of this turkey after reading the script.) There is no point to a sequel unless this central relationship progresses or grows, and there is no way for it to do so without revealing how essentially absurd it was in the first place.
In short, like the book, this is a work whose reason to exist is money rather than art. In fact, rare is the film that has had "paycheck" written all over it so clearly, for nearly all the participants. Hopkins is effective, if often verging on self-parody. Giannini looks as if he took his assignment more seriously, investing some real humanity into an Italianized rendition of the classic shabby cop. Gary Oldman, whose name appears only in the closing credits, is unrecognizable as Verger -- a toothless character with no facial features to speak of. Despite the toothlessness, Oldman, for better or worse, immediately sets about chewing the scenery with his trademark gusto.
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