An Artistically Complex, Penetratingly Intimate Drama Leaning Towards the Thriller Genre

Rating: 10/10 (28 October 2008)

Broodingly, intimately and truthfully shot, quietly edited, with a gloomy orchestral score and a richly commanding cast everywhere from Hopkins and Foster's obvious milestones to Scott Glenn and Ted Levine, this artistically complex, penetratingly intimate movie is a masterpiece in all departments. I do not categorize it as a horror film. Maybe a suspense thriller, because whenever I watch it, I view it as such, but the reason it is so compelling is because it is not genre-specific. Yes, it is scary, it is suspenseful, especially in its heart-exploding climax, and our fear of Dr. Hannibal Lecter is established as soon as he appears for the first time, as FBI cadet Clarice Starling reticently passes the maximum security cells of clearly demented ward occupants, and director Jonathan Demme cuts to her point of view as she arrives at Hannibal's cell at the end of the dank corridor, and he is awaiting her already, standing with perfect posture, a pleasant, polite look on his face. His speaking voice has the care of a man having transcended the common cognizance that he can hardly be concerned to speak to the slack acumen of the ordinary person. The effect of this scene is so powerful that it underlies all the rest of the movie, affording fear to scenes that do not even have to do with him.
There is so much to say about Hannibal Lecter, as a character, as a villain, as a person. But rather than doing so, I shall simply say that the reason Jonathan Demme's The Silence of the Lambs as a film works incomparably better than Ridley Scott's Hannibal or Brett Ratner's Red Dragon, in the sense of portraying Hannibal in the most powerful and mystifying way, is because it tries to create sympathy for him through his charm, his incredible intelligence, his creative cultivation and his penetrating insight into the mind with all five senses, then turn the monster loose. Accordingly, there are moments when Lecter commits brutally violent acts, but Demme and the adapting screenwriter Ted Tally wisely let a little go a long way, with the foreseeing intention that the long-term impact is of his evil psychological strength.
Most of the best stories never started from ideas but always from character. I firmly believe that The Silence of the Lambs is an offshoot straight from the creation of Hannibal Lecter. Even as rich and sympathetic and real as Clarice Starling is, she is a projection of what Dr. Lecter would find fascinating, how he would affect an eager but inexperienced rookie's undertaking of a critical case.
The Silence of the Lambs is not simply a horror film because of its involvement of two psychopathic serial killers but because of its organic use of the great common phobias and fears. Here is a story involving not only cannibalism and skinning, but also kidnapping in the least likely situation, one that will shatter one's trust and sense of good samaritanship, being trapped in the bottom of a well, the details and anatomy of decomposing corpses, large insects, being lost in the dark, being tracked by someone you cannot see, not being able to get people to believe you, people who know your deepest secrets, beheadings, bizarre sexual perversions, and being a short woman in an investigation otherwise led completely by tall men.
Demme is aware of the pitfalls of shock value and exploitative horror film techniques, but does not hesitate to take chances. His first scene with Hopkins could have gone over the top, and in the hands of a lesser actor almost certainly would have. But Hopkins is in the great British tradition of actors who internalize instead of overacting.
Jodie Foster is unavoidably upstaged by Hopkins's fertile and horrific conception, but her stability, natural sensitivity and stealthy backbone are at the core of the film's resolve. Real and attention-grabbing facets lurk within her character as they do in any one of us: She is one age group ahead from white trash, as Lecter precisely conjectures, she tries to camouflage her southern accent, and she has to rally all of her nerve and fabricated confidence to instruct a room full of coarse small town lawmen out of an autopsy room. This gripping and incessantly developed drama has a nuance of unsolicited male attention toward her. Hardly ever in a movie have I been made more alert to the understated sexual burden men instill in women with their eyes. Ideally, if you're going to have a character appear in a story long enough to glance at a woman, pass by at the wrong time, take a picture or anything to such a minuscule effect, they had better be real enough that you can guess what they ate that morning. The makers of The Silence of the Lambs understand this.