Editorials
[Editorial] Back at the Table: Revisiting the Brilliant “Hannibal,” Five Years Later
In 2013, Hannibal Lecter became scary again.
Mind you, the witty epicurean with a taste for human flesh had been terrifying long before — in Thomas Harris’s original novels, or when Brian Cox played him as a sulky genius in Michael Mann’s 1986 Manhunter, and especially in Jonathan Demme’s Academy Award winning The Silence of the Lambs (1991). Anthony Hopkins’s magnetic and unsettling performance in that film not only earned him a Best Actor Oscar, but also cemented Hannibal’s place among the great movie monsters.
But like Dracula, Freddy, and nearly all of his predecessors, Lecter quickly devolved into something familiar and toothless. Hopkins’s portrayals grew increasingly hammy in Ridley Scott’s Hannibal (2001) and Brett Ratner’s Red Dragon (2002), and by the time French actor Gaspard Ulliel played the character in the 2007 prequel film Hannibal Rising, Lecter had been reduced to a familiar set of tics and quotes.
NBC’s weekly series Hannibal returned the character to his frightening glory. A network crime procedural hardly seems like the ideal venue for such a rehabilitation, but over the course of three seasons, showrunner Bryan Fuller and his collaborators created some of the most surreal and disturbing prime time television since the original Twin Peaks.
Set before the events of Harris’s first novel Red Dragon, Hannibal follows the relationship between FBI profiler Will Graham (Hugh Dancy), whose “pure empathy” allows him to assume anyone’s perspective, and Lecter (Mads Mikkelsen), known at this time only as a respected psychiatrist and gracious host. As they investigate cases brought to them by FBI Director Jack Crawford (Laurence Fishburne), the two men engage in something between a romance and cat and mouse game.
By his own admission, Fuller gave Hannibal a “case of the week” procedural structure as a concession to NBC, allowing it to sit comfortably alongside legal thrillers like CSI and Law & Order. For the first season and a half, episodes would involve Crawford sending a wise-cracking forensic team (featuring Aaron Abrams, Hettienne Park, and Kids in the Hall alum Scott Thompson) to investigate some bizarre crime, with Graham creating psychological profiles of the perpetrator, while Hannibal and fellow psychiatrist Alana Bloom (Caroline Dhavernas) keep Will from getting lost in murderous minds.
But despite its conventionality, the structure placed the series in a troubling alternate reality, one where anybody could be a killer. Combining the lurid absurdity of Harris’s prose with the gothic whimsy Fuller demonstrated in his earlier death-obsessed shows Dead Like Me and Pushing Daisies, Hannibal found grisly tableaux in the most inconspicuous places: a kindly pharmacist turns his victims into a mushroom farm, a caring acupuncturist blinds her patients and fills their bodies with beehives. Fully embracing Fuller’s “pretentious art film from the 80s” aesthetic, Hannibal portrayed the corpses in a manner both grotesque and gorgeous, eschewing realism for dream-like phantasmagoria.
In the era of The Blacklist and The Following, gory crime has almost become commonplace, accepted by both tv investigators and the audiences watching them. But Hannibal made the convention part of the show’s worldview. Throughout the series, Lecter nudges others towards acts of violence, in an attempt to normalize himself. He quotes great philosophers and Renaissance artists, but nothing proves his point better than a grouchy old man who gathers 30 years’ worth of victims into a macabre totem pole.
In a world such as this, what makes Hannibal Lecter remarkable? His ability to manipulate. Where all versions of the character have had that quality, most exercised their control through overt provocation —just recall Hopkins’s wide-eyed glee when Clarice Starling (Jodie Foster) recoiled at his story about the census taker. Mikkelsen’s Lecter is a consummate observer. He’s always watching from his shark black eyes and cataloguing responses to his suggestions. So detached is this Lecter that his own therapist Dr. Du Maurier (Gillian Anderson) describes him as a monster wearing a “person suit.”
And what a compelling suit it is, as Mikkelsen underplays the menace to underscore his manners. Largely restraining his murderous impulses (at least until season three, when he fully reveals his nature), Hannibal covers his machinations with good psychiatry, and his schemes with decedent dinner parties. In Mikkelsen’s hands, we understand how Lecter could live so long as among high society. This Lecter can believably demonstrate empathy for his patients, as when he encourages Jack Crawford’s wife Bella (Gina Torres) to view her terminal cancer diagnosis as change to embrace, not a defeat to suffer.
But the show never lets us forget that Hannibal’s compassion is an extension of his curiosity, not of his humanity. When Bella attempts suicide, ending life on her own terms instead of allowing the cancer to kill her, the camera rests on Hannibal watching her expiring body before he casually pulls out a coin and flips it into the air. He decides to revive her, to prolong her suffering and create turmoil in Jack’s life, all based on a coin toss, just to see what they would do.
This inhumanity also allows Mikkelsen to bring plenty of playfulness to the role, as someone who, as Du Maurier puts it to the FBI, can be brought down by his own “whimsy” toward his crimes. The camera catches the twinkle in Mikkelsen’s eye when he talks of having friends for dinner, or of eating the rude. The jokes are funny, sure, but they’re also terrifying, and not just because they’re about cannibalism. They’re terrifying because we’re enjoying the thought of eating people.
Take the end of the 7th episode of season one, which features Hannibal’s first on-screen murder spree as he collects ingredients for a dinner party. The final scene begins with a pan across a table filled with ornate dishes, guests clapping as baroque classical plays, eventually landing on Hannibal, taking it all in. “Before we begin, you must all be warned,” he declares with a pregnant pause. “Nothing here is vegetarian.”
We viewers share in the attendees’ satisfied chuckles, and when Hannibal raises a glass in salute, he raises it directly toward the camera, toward us as well. As his smirk reveals, Lecter has accomplished his goal: he’s made his guests into ravenous cannibals and he’s made us enjoy it.
That’s why Fuller’s most effective stroke was making Will Graham the protagonist of Hannibal’s story. An FBI agent who cares for stray dogs obviously makes for an easier audience surrogate than a cannibal psychiatrist (no matter how charming), but Will’s empathy abilities better serve the show’s primary theme and builds the tension.
The series’s iconography demonstrates the relationships between Will and the criminals he hunts, particularly Hannibal himself. Throughout the show, Will has visions of a black stag, a representation of the serial killer Garrett Jacob Hobbs (Vladimir Jon Cubrt), who Will had to shoot in the series pilot and to whom he feels a connection. As Lecter pushes Will into becoming a butcher himself, it mutates into a slate black creature with Hannibal’s face and the stag’s horns, sometimes stalking Will and sometimes giving birth to a chimera with Will’s face.
But for viewers, the most powerful illustration of Will’s vulnerability is the visual representation of his empathy. These sequences open with establishing shots on a crime scene, such as a man with a cello neck protruding from his throat or a dead family with mirrors in their eyes. Yellow bars wipe across the screen, each pass erasing the viscera until all lives and limbs have been restored. The audience then watches the crime play out, with Will taking the place of the murderer, narrating each of his bloody actions until he declares, “This is my design.”
As with the killer of the week structure, these empathy sequences serve a generic purpose by providing exposition. But they also show us Will’s unraveling mind; they make us scared for him and, by extension, scared of Hannibal.
One of the best examples occurs in the 4th episode of season two, which features the death of Beverly Katz (Park), a member of the show’s forensics team. Pushed by the incarcerated Will to investigate a murder, Katz discovers evidence of Hannibal’s involvement. Director David Semel frames the scene in classic horror movie fashion: in the foreground, dread creeps across Katz’s face as she realizes what she’s found; in the background, Hannibal emerges from the shadows. Cut to black.
The real terror comes in the next episode, in which Jack finds Katz’s body, cut into vertical slices and displayed in glass. Jack brings Will from prison to profile the killer, and viewers watch a recreation of the scene. After the yellow bars undo the carnage, we watch Will strangle Katz. We see him freeze her body and cut it into bits, preparing it for the display. We see him fully corrupted by Lecter.
This tension plays out in various ways throughout Hannibal’s three seasons, giving us a fresh take on Lecter. He’s just as charming and witty as he’s ever been, and despite the constraints of network television, Hannibal kills and cooks with memorable violence.
But as we grow to know and love Will, Jack, and the other characters, and as we continue to enjoy Mikkelsen’s mesmerizing performance, we find that Lecter has stuck in our head. Our bodies might be safe from a voracious tv cannibal, but we experience a new horror as we turn off the tv and still feel him there, nibbling on the corners of our minds.
Editorials
‘Leprechaun Returns’ – The Charm of the Franchise’s Legacy Sequel
The erratic Leprechaun franchise is not known for sticking with a single concept for too long. The namesake (originally played by Warwick Davis) has gone to L.A., Las Vegas, space, and the ‘hood (not once but twice). And after an eleven-year holiday since the Davis era ended, the character received a drastic makeover in a now-unmentionable reboot. The critical failure of said film would have implied it was time to pack away the green top hat and shillelagh, and say goodbye to the nefarious imp. Instead, the Leprechaun series tried its luck again.
The general consensus for the Leprechaun films was never positive, and the darker yet blander Leprechaun: Origins certainly did not sway opinions. Just because the 2014 installment took itself seriously did not mean viewers would. After all, creator Mark Jones conceived a gruesome horror-comedy back in the early nineties, and that format is what was expected of any future ventures. So as horror legacy sequels (“legacyquels”) became more common in the 2010s, Leprechaun Returns followed suit while also going back to what made the ‘93 film work. This eighth entry echoed Halloween (2018) by ignoring all the previous sequels as well as being a direct continuation of the original. Even ardent fans can surely understand the decision to wipe the slate clean, so to speak.
Leprechaun Returns “continued the [franchise’s] trend of not being consistent by deciding to be consistent.” The retconning of Steven Kostanski and Suzanne Keilly’s film was met with little to no pushback from the fandom, who had already become accustomed to seeing something new and different with every chapter. Only now the “new and different” was familiar. With the severe route of Origins a mere speck in the rearview mirror, director Kotanski implemented a “back to basics” approach that garnered better reception than Zach Lipovsky’s own undertaking. The one-two punch of preposterous humor and grisly horror was in full force again.
With Warwick Davis sitting this film out — his own choice — there was the foremost challenge of finding his replacement. Returns found Davis’ successor in Linden Porco, who admirably filled those blood-stained, buckled shoes. And what would a legacy sequel be without a returning character? Jennifer Aniston obviously did not reprise her final girl role of Tory Redding. So, the film did the next best thing and fetched another of Lubdan’s past victims: Ozzie, the likable oaf played by Mark Holton. Returns also created an extension of Tory’s character by giving her a teenage daughter, Lila (Taylor Spreitler).
It has been twenty-five years since the events of the ‘93 film. The incident is unknown to all but its survivors. Interested in her late mother’s history there in Devil’s Lake, North Dakota, Lila transferred to the local university and pledged a sorority — really the only one on campus — whose few members now reside in Tory Redding’s old home. The farmhouse-turned-sorority-house is still a work in progress; Lila’s fellow Alpha Epsilon sisters were in the midst of renovating the place when a ghost of the past found its way into the present.
The Psycho Goreman and The Void director’s penchant for visceral special effects is noted early on as the Leprechaun tears not only into the modern age, but also through poor Ozzie’s abdomen. The portal from 1993 to 2018 is soaked with blood and guts as the Leprechaun forces his way into the story. Davis’ iconic depiction of the wee antagonist is missed, however, Linden Porco is not simply keeping the seat warm in case his predecessor ever resumes the part. His enthusiastic performance is accentuated by a rotten-looking mug that adds to his innate menace.
The obligatory fodder is mostly young this time around. Apart from one luckless postman and Ozzie — the premature passing of the latter character removed the chance of caring about anyone in the film — the Leprechaun’s potential prey are all college aged. Lila is this story’s token trauma kid with caregiver baggage; her mother thought “monsters were always trying to get her.” Lila’s habit of mentioning Tory’s mental health problem does not make a good first impression with the resident mean girl and apparent alcoholic of the sorority, Meredith (Emily Reid). Then there are the nicer but no less cursorily written of the Alpha Epsilon gals: eco-conscious and ex-obsessive Katie (Pepi Sonuga), and uptight overachiever Rose (Sai Bennett). Rounding out the main cast are a pair of destined-to-die bros (Oliver Llewellyn Jenkins, Ben McGregor). Lila and her peers range from disposable to plain irritating, so rooting for any one of them is next to impossible. Even so, their overstated personalities make their inevitable fates more satisfying.
Where Returns excels is its death sequences. Unlike Jones’ film, this one is not afraid of killing off members of the main cast. Lila, admittedly, wears too much plot armor, yet with her mother’s spirit looming over her and the whole story — comedian Heather McDonald put her bang-on Aniston impersonation to good use as well as provided a surprisingly emotional moment in the film — her immunity can be overlooked. Still, the other characters’ brutal demises make up for Lila’s imperviousness. The Leprechaun’s killer set-pieces also happen to demonstrate the time period, seeing as he uses solar panels and a drone in several supporting characters’ executions. A premortem selfie and the antagonist’s snarky mention of global warming additionally add to this film’s particular timestamp.
Critics were quick to say Leprechaun Returns did not break new ground. Sure, there is no one jetting off to space, or the wacky notion of Lubdan becoming a record producer. This reset, however, is still quite charming and entertaining despite its lack of risk-taking. And with yet another reboot in the works, who knows where the most wicked Leprechaun ever to exist will end up next.
Horror contemplates in great detail how young people handle inordinate situations and all of life’s unexpected challenges. While the genre forces characters of every age to face their fears, it is especially interested in how youths might fare in life-or-death scenarios.
The column Young Blood is dedicated to horror stories for and about teenagers, as well as other young folks on the brink of terror.
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