Skip to main content

I was a busy girl last week. In between trying to pass a camel through the eye of a needle, and lighting my lamp to search for an honest man, I tried not to see Hannibal.

As everyone knows, Hannibal, the sequel to The Silence of the Lambs, opened last Friday with tremendous numbers, grossing $58-million in its first three days, the third-largest opening weekend in history. To put that in perspective, remember that the two movies ahead of it -- The Lost World: Jurassic Park and Star Wars: Episode 1 -- were both rated PG. Which means that some of their dollars came from packs of kids. Every buck earned by the R-rated Hannibal, however, came from the pockets of supposedly sentient adults.

Now, I know that Silence was a huge hit 10 years ago. The critics liked it, audiences went in droves, and it swept the top five categories (best picture, actor, actress, director and adapted screenplay) at the Oscars, a rare feat.

But I seem to be the only person on Earth who didn't get it. I never bought the whole "brilliant, cultured psychiatrist who is evil incarnate" thing. To me, it just looked like a condemnation of smart people. I never saw why, if Hannibal Lecter (Anthony Hopkins) was so brilliant and cultured, he would be captivated by the hick novice FBI agent Clarice Starling (Jodie Foster). I never believed Foster's cracker-barrel accent. And it seems that I alone found her psychological revelations ("the lambs were . . . screaming") hoot-inducing rather than deep.

I dutifully read the reams of psychological analysis that accompanied Silence's reviews (when I wasn't busy outside, that is, pushing this rock up a hill that somehow rolls back down every time I near the top). "People are curious about the limits of evil," the stories concurred. "We all have dark corners in us where cruelty lives, and it's healthy for us to examine that."

I didn't buy them, either. No matter how dank the basement of my soul, Monsieur Lecter, ce n'est pas moi. (To my great relief, Anthony Hopkins is going around admitting that he himself never understood the admiration people have for Lecter. "I mean, the man is mad," he says.)

I did appreciate some things about Silence. Starling was forced to kowtow to Lecter in order to save a kidnapped girl, in the way we all occasionally have to resort to reprehensible means to reach legitimate ends. The moral queasiness of that is worth exploring.

I liked that Starling was allowed to be nervous when she finally confronted the kidnapper/murderer Jaime Gumm.

I also admired the way director Jonathan Demme created an atmosphere of true dread -- largely by not showing too much. I distinctly remember feeling my heart pound, and thinking that I wasn't going to make it through the movie, that the apprehension was too much to bear when I was just there to be entertained. It wasn't a pleasant feeling, but it was a strong one, and that impressed me.

The thing I most remember about Silence, though, was that it was the first movie I saw that I almost wish I hadn't. It was the first time I became aware that the movies we see -- like the people we meet, the experiences we have -- move into our minds and live there permanently. We internalize them, and to some degree, they affect who we are from then on. I have pictures in my brain now, of torture and mutilation and fear, that I would excise if I could. But I can't.

As I get older, I find I'm more and more selective about what images I want knocking around my noggin. I'm not declaring that, from now on, I'm seeing only wistful movies about the lives of tantalizing women in picturesque villages in Italy. I'm not trying to narrow my realm of experience, or deny that life is comprised of as much pain as beauty. I want to stay open to art and ideas. The pedophile scenes in Happiness, the date rapes in Kids, the chainsaw chase in American Psycho -- I'll look at them, and I'll try to appreciate what the filmmakers are trying to say.

But in order for me to make that effort, I have to believe that these movies are about something bigger and finer than just grossing me out. And this is why I'm encouraging you -- in my spare time, when I'm not leading my horse to water (the damn animal is just not thirsty, I guess) -- to consider not seeing Hannibal.

If there is little meaning to be found in Silence, there is far less -- that is, zero -- in Hannibal. There is no illumination of evil, no wit, no pathos. There isn't even dread. In Silence, Lecter was in prison, and could induce skin-crawling fear simply by stealing the spring from a pen. In Hannibal, Lecter is free, and has access to all the knives he needs. Supersharp knives. So where is the tension? (You're not thinking much about the human condition if you're spending an entire movie thinking, "Where can I get me one of those Florentine knife sharpeners?") Hannibal shows us way too much -- intestines slurping onto paving stones, tsunamis of seeping blood -- and tells us nothing.

I realize I'm spitting into the wind while beating a dead horse; that this whole column is the sound of one hand clapping. You'll probably see Hannibal anyway. Eventually, everyone will. (If you don't believe me, just try renting Silence of the Lambs.) At least go knowing that you're inviting these images into your cerebellum forever, and be warned that there is no commensurate edification to offset them. I had to see it. You have a choice.

Follow related authors and topics

Authors and topics you follow will be added to your personal news feed in Following.

Interact with The Globe