By Stephanie Zacharek
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Calum Marsh
By Inkoo Kang
By Sherilyn Connelly
By Carolina del Busto
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Alan Scherstuhl
The not-so-great American pastime of serial killing has splattered pop culture in recent years, but from the biopics of America's Most Unwanted to the nervy theatricality of Anthony Perkins or Kevin Spacey, only one legend stands definitive: that of Hannibal "The Cannibal" Lecter. Within the performance of that other eerie Anthony (Hopkins) lies a ghastly assurance that all shall be unwell. Nasty, effete Dr. Lecter is smarter than you, and if he doesn't like you, he'll eat you. What could be worse?
Then again -- in producer-think -- what could be better? Ultimately, the game is all about the DVD boxset, so now, following Jonathan Demme's superb Silence of the Lambs and Ridley Scott's ambitious but muddled Hannibal comes the darkly dreamy Red Dragon, prequel to both and all-around temporal wig-out. Eleven years after Silence, Hopkins returns to play Lecter before FBI agent Clarice Starling stepped into the gristle. And yet somehow -- possibly because Harris's 1981 novel is very craftily adapted by Silence's screenwriter, Ted Tally -- this heavily Demme-inspired adaptation by crowd-pleaser Brett Ratner (the Rush Hour movies) makes said boxset seem less tacky and actually kind of cool.
Red Dragon opens in Baltimore, circa 1980, where we meet eminent psychologist and brutal music critic Hannibal Lecter (Hopkins in hair dye). Following a very upper-crusty dinner party, he is visited by sensitive young detective Will Graham (Edward Norton), who has been conferring with the doctor regarding the dreaded Chesapeake Ripper and is on the brink of fingering the butcher. Thing is, Lecter is on extremely intimate terms with Graham's flesh-fancying quarry; an ugly scuffle ensues.
Via a montage of newspaper clippings, we learn that Hannibal is behind bars while the perilously empathetic Graham has nearly gone crackers. Yet still, catching up with the latter in his quiet Florida neighborhood, FBI honcho Jack Crawford (Harvey Keitel, admirably standing in for a younger Scott Glenn) needs Graham's unique gifts of instinct for a new case. So far, a literal lunatic has slaughtered two seemingly unrelated young families, one in Atlanta, one in Birmingham, both during the most recent full moons. With three weeks and change to the next one, Crawford prevails upon Graham's compassion to roust him from early retirement.
Fortunately, even though this story may be overly familiar to many, Norton is magnetic as Graham, a character for which his nigh-to-cracking voice and struggle of will over vulnerability are extremely well-suited. As he visits the crime scenes, Graham gets into the mind of the killer, again, and the hunt is on.
Obviously, the role of Hannibal is a bit limited here due to his confinement in the absurdly medieval dungeon (reconstructed from Silence) where he's kept by jovial black guys and uppity psychologist Frederick Chilton (Anthony Heald, reprising his role), who the bad doctor says "fumbles at your head like a freshman pulling at a panty girdle." But Hopkins's scenes perfectly showcase the character, and he vamps with brio, especially when Graham comes to call, seeking the criminal's perspective. What Graham doesn't understand quite quickly enough is that Hannibal is enjoying a covert master-ward relationship with the madman.
We can distinguish Michael Mann's gritty 1986 adaptation Manhunter from the more fanciful Red Dragon in many ways. Stylistically, Mann's 1986 movie looks and feels like Miami Vice (bad shirts! campy overacting!), whereas Red Dragon is lush throughout, from the Oscar-nommed thoroughbred cast to the gloriously dilapidated antebellum mansion of the killer, who thinks he is a dragon but is actually just Ralph Fiennes in his most creepily comfortable role since Schindler's List. It's with him that the movie hits its stride, and although his monster is seemingly less monstrous than Tom Noonan's previous portrayal, Fiennes brings to the role a fetishistic luridness that will linger in moviegoers' soft gray tissue.
But Ratner's vision, though impressive, is imperfect. He seems confused about where to amplify suspense, and unlike Mann, he does not fully exploit the tension between Graham and his boss and son. Thankfully, Emily Watson comes to his rescue with her spot-on portrayal of the killer's blind girlfriend; her performance works wonders in the absence of Jodie Foster. Now, if only they could remake Hannibal with the right actress before they assemble that boxset.
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