Hanibal

"Hannibal," the long-awaited sequel to "The Silence of the Lambs," opened on Friday, and the new film immediately garnered long lines of people hoping for thrills and chills equalling those of the old film. Most likely, they didn't get quite what they wanted to see. Anthony Hopkins still commands the screen with delicious glee as Hannibal "The Cannibal" Lecter, and Julianne Moore as FBI Special Agent Clarice Starling does an admirable job chasing him around in Jodie Foster's quite fillable shoes. But "Hannibal" isn't really a thriller, as only one scene even builds up a passable amount of tension, and the various depredations the film depicts will inspire more nausea than fear.

No, "Hannibal" is best understood as (get ready) an allegorical duel between the Protestant ethic and taboo-busting decadence, as presented in vivid terms by novelist Thomas Harris, screenwriters David Mamet and Steven Zaillian, and director Ripley Scott. If that doesn't sound especially interesting, believe me, you've got company.

How does the allegory work? We begin with the changes in our bright Starling. Ten years of law enforcement have made Julianne Moore's Starling colder and most distant than Jodie Foster's was. Gone are Foster's open face and quavering voice, replaced by Moore's slanted looks and a note in her voice of both determination and resignation. In short, Starling is no longer pure; nevertheless, she continues to struggle for purity, for morality, for the hope that one day the world will work as it should.

Furthermore, Starling still drives a beater, an early-90s Mustang (even if it does have the V-8 engine); she lives in a modest row house, while her adversaries dally in domiciles so sumptuous they seem like dreams; she shutters herself in a dank, fluorescent-lit basement while the rest of the world dwells in radiant natural light. She is prudence, denial, forthrightness, dedication, and most of all common morality: the Protestant ethic.

Meanwhile, Lecter has been tweaked a little bit to make him even more the sybarite than he was in the first film. After his face-saving escape from the authorities in "The Silence of the Lambs," he has made his home in Florence, where everyone apparently speaks perfectly idiomatic English except peasants. Lecter's gotten a little thicker around the waist, perhaps because Italians make such good meals; on the other hand, perhaps it's because he's (probably) killed a man to get his job as curator of a library of rare books and prints, and the job doesn't allow for too much exercise. Lecter's cannibal gourmet tendencies, never underemphasized in "The Silence of the Lambs," are allowed to run free over the entire picture here, with oft-gruesome results.

Yet Scott presents everything Lecter does in the same (literally) flattering light. Florence is painted in hues so beautiful that they verge on self-parody. One man's murder is presented more as an act of devotion to art than the taking of a life; when Lecter cooks another hapless victim, Scott lingers so artfully over the various morsels in the frying pan that we almost want to try some ourselves. In short, Scott stacks the deck for decadence.

In this context, it becomes obvious why Gary Oldman, Giancarlo Giannini and Ray Liotta are all wasted in off-key roles: they are simply aspects of rudeness for Hannibal to dispatch. After all, notes one character, "Hannibal said that all things being equal, he preferred to eat rude people." Vengeful, avaricious and spiteful, Oldman, Giannini and Liotta get what they deserve; their little stories serve not so much as plot but as opportunities for grotesquerie. The key story here is Lecter's fascination with Starling, decadence's eternal siren song to rectitude. As he gently teases her about being "a good Protestant" and questions the outcomes of her value system, we wonder: Why is Clarice so uptight about eating people, anyway? Or, at any rate, we're supposed to.

"Hannibal" is not a very good film. Blame for this does not lie with the actors, most of whom do quite well. Hopkins turns in a true professional's work, obviously savoring every line that's given to him just the way his character savors human flesh. Moore proves a steadfast bulwark against Lecter's invitations; despite Scott's obvious sympathies with the devil, she keeps the outcome in doubt until the very end.

No, what's wrong with this film is that there's nothing really very human in it, despite the best efforts of determined thespians. Where "The Silence of the Lambs" transcended its pulp origins with its deft psychology and odd humaneness, "Hannibal" seems so determined to make its allegorical case that it can't make its characters human. It's all spectacle and no substance; we get a vapid opera to texts by Dante (written especially for the film by Hans "I Can't Score" Zimmer), light shimmering luxuriantly, fine wines in golden glasses, and eloquent poetry on ancient parchments, but no feeling that there are two human beings, as opposed to two competing moral outlooks, who have an existence beyond their accoutrements. And without human emotions, the allegory cannot become interesting or vital, and we can't feel those wonderful rushes of tension characteristic of superior thrillers.

So all we get, in the end, are two hours of uninvolving but gorgeous filmmaking, broken up occasionally by savage taboo-breaking. If that's your cup of tea, by all means go have a look, but most people will leave "Hannibal" wondering what the point was, or realizing that there wasn't one.

GRATUITOUS MISSOURI SYNOD BASHING

At one point in this film, Starling reveals to Gary Oldman's character that she was "raised Lutheran." I have to tell you: Starling does not seem like an ELCA chick to me. An ELCA damsel would have probably displayed at least some inclination to be seduced by the glamour of Hannibal's lifestyle. Only someone schooled in the annhiliating prudery of Missouri Synod Lutheranism could act so stoic in the face of all that culture. Remember, ELCA is The Place to Pray.

ADDITIONAL MUSINGS ON "HANNIBAL" (a week later)

In the eternal question of the actual denomination of Clarice Starling's Lutheranism, my erudite godfather has informed me that Starling could conceivably be a Wisconsin Synod chick. I had no idea that there even was a Wisconsin Synod, and asked my dear mother about it. She subsequently informed me that the Wisconsin Synod was kind of the Continental Basketball Association of Lutheranism and (this is a direct quote) "the Wisconsin Synod never could have had any pretty women in it." When I asked her whether or not the synod could have had ugly women, she responded, "Oh, I'm sure they had to continue the species." So I don't think we're any closer to resolving this issue.

Horror Home

Spam-O-Matic Home