Let’s get one thing out of the way right now: the fact that Hannibal isn’t as good as its Oscar-sweeping predecessor (1991’s The Silence of the Lambs) is not Julianne Moore’s fault. In fact, her performance as FBI agent Clarice Starling is strong enough to silence not only the lambs, but also the critics who thought nobody could replace Jodie Foster.
Nor is Anthony Hopkins to blame; returning to his career-defining role as Hannibal “The Cannibal” Lecter, he seems to savour each moment like the fine wine Dr. Lecter takes with his gruesome meals. Though Brian Cox’s brief appearance as “Lecktor” in Michael Mann’s Manhunter may be closer to author Thomas Harris’s conception, it is Hopkins who has made the name of Hannibal Lecter so well known. In Hannibal, a film that dwells on Lecter’s erudition and fine taste as much as his insanity, the always-classy Hopkins makes the character even more indelibly his own.
Could the problem be director Ridley Scott, flush with the success (and Oscar aspirations) of last year’s Gladiator? In a word, no. Scott’s gift for visual flourishes enhances the film’s gorgeous locales and rich interiors, from the sun-dappled palazzos of Florence to the classical grandeur of Washington, D.C. His style is as well matched to the film’s tone as Jonathan Demme’s was to Silence.
Well, it must be the plot then, right? Not really. Like the book, it begins with a drug-bust shootout that all but ends Starling’s FBI career, and then follows her efforts to track down the not-so-good doctor. Her search leads to Tuscany, where a crooked Italian detective (Giancarlo Giannini) has discovered Lecter working as a museum curator and wants to collect a reward offered by the wealthy but disfigured Mason Verger (an uncredited Gary Oldman, sounding like Jim Carrey’s Grinch with his lips torn off), Lecter’s only surviving victim. Unlike the book, thank God, it doesn’t end with Lecter and Starling living happily ever after. The alternate ending, er, cooked up by screenwriters David Mamet (who contributed the first draft) and Steven Zaillian isn’t much better, but that’s not the film’s biggest flaw.
Ultimately, what’s wrong with Hannibal is Hannibal. Reading Harris’s book, you get the sense that the author has become too enamored of his creation (he uses the word “monster” like a term of endearment); the same sense pervades the film, which is often scene-for-scene faithful. Like many real-life serial killers, Lecter inspires both revulsion and fascination, which in itself is fine. He’s a creature of pure intellect, unfettered by matters of conscience or morality. His aberrant palate is one of Western civilization’s greatest taboos, yet he is in all other respects a man of the most highly refined sensibility. (As Starling points out, Lecter’s horrific crimes are often the result of someone having offended his good taste.) But like Harris, Mamet and Zaillian make the mistake of turning Lecter into a sort of superhero in reverse. Near the end, Lecter carries an unconscious Starling to safety, his face masked by that now-infamous mouth guard.
In other words, what we have is simply that old thriller standby, the Brilliant Serial Killer, taken to a ridiculous extreme. The Silence of the Lambs worked because it walked right up to that line, but didn’t cross it. Hannibal will only make you realize just how contrived the nickname “Hannibal the Cannibal” really is.
(2.5/4)