The most disturbing Christmas gift I've ever received was a set of trading cards.
The problem was not trading cards in and of themselves. Souvenirs that signify one's love of athletes, fictional characters, and famous persons go back as far as the small bits of silk imprinted with the faces of famous persons, crowned heads, and well known athletes a century ago. These little textiles, which are usually known as "tobacco silks" or "cigarette silks" because they came as free premiums with boxes of carcinogenic inhaleable plan materials at the turn of the last century, were gradually superseded by actual full-color cards that came with sticks of hard, dry, flavorless chewing gum.
Regardless of the material used, or the unhealthy treat they accompanied, these little bits of social history offer a fascinating look into the past. I'm too young for tobacco silks, but I did collect hockey cards for a couple of years as an adult thanks to my love of the local minor league team. I don't buy hockey cards anymore, but I'd be more than happy to collect Captain Marvel, Black Widow, or Ms. Marvel trading cards if they actually existed (HINT HINT TO ANYONE FROM MARVEL READING THIS), and if someone ever makes an Elizabeth Warren set I am so, so there.
so it wasn't the idea of getting trading cards as a present that was so very unsettling. Neither was the sentiment behind it; the giver was well aware of my love for mysteries and true crime stories, and genuinely thought that his gift would be greeted with an appreciative smile and a big hug of gratitude. The last thing he expected was for me to tear open the wrapping paper, stare in bewilderment, and say, after a distinct pause, "What - what is this?" in a tone that can only be described as "shocked and somewhat appalled."
No, the reason for my dismay is simple: they were serial killer trading cards.
That's right. A person I was very close to, whom I am not naming for good and sufficient reason, gave me a packet of trading cards describing the life and crimes of Jack the Ripper, Ted Bundy, Ed Gein, Arthur Shawcross, Juan Corona, and similar perpetrators of unspeakable horrors. They were brand new, produced by a small publisher that was attempting to cash in on the early 1990's serial killer craze, and were illustrated with what I can only describe as tasteful, weirdly elegant black and white drawings and photographs of each multiple murderer.
My gift giver, who had only thought to bring me the joy and delight that is supposed to be synonymous with Christmas/Kwanzaa/Hanukkah/Festivus/Solstice/New Year's, was stunned by my reaction. "I thought you'd like these! You read the books all the time!"
"I read them because I can drop them in the bathtub and not care if they get wet," I replied, still not sure whether to accept the cards, hand them back, or see if could use them to produce a small quantity of gun cotton. "I sure wasn't expecting serial killer trading cards as a stocking stuffer."
"Sorry," he mumbled, and tried to retrieve the cards. "I'll see if I can return them."
"No, no, it's all right." I pulled out the Jeffrey Dahmer card and successfully repressed a shudder. It was Christmas, after all, and I didn't want to cause a scene. "I can use them for quick reference if I'm writing something. Thanks."
He smiled, clearly relieved. "You're welcome," he said, and we went on to the next round of (far more suitable) gifts.
I'm not sure what happened to those trading cards - they may have gotten lost in a move, or been eaten by the Triple Felinoid, or simply wandered away to the happy land pioneered by socks and wire hangers and other objects that either vanish or multiply for no discernible reason - but I've stuck to books about serial killers ever since. There's a weird fascination in reading about a clever killer and the clever detectives who pursue him*, and I take real pleasure in seeing how a good true crime writer like Darcy O'Brien, Ann Rule, or Jack Olsen make the bad guy fascinating without glorifying him or his deeds. There's a reason I've worn out three copies of The Stranger Beside Me, and it's not because I have a secret crush on Ted Bundy.
*The overwhelming majority of serial killers are male, with most of the females being women like Karla Homolka or Myra Hindley who were in thrall to a dominant husband or male partner.
I'm scarcely alone in my interest in serial killers, both real and fictional. Jack the Ripper has fascinated true crime buffs for over a century, while mystery novelists have written literally thousands of novels about serial killers ranging from the forgettable to the indelible. That does not mean that all these books are good, or even readable; some are so gruesome as to cause the gorge to rise, others are so cliched as to deserve being thrown violently and repeatedly at the wall, and others still are simply dull despite the horrific subject matter.
And of course some are So Bad They're Good.
Tonight I bring you the sequel to what is still probably the single best serial killer novel ever written. This book, which aims for the brilliance of its predecessor but is as dull and lifeless as a piece of industrial-grade cubic zirconium smeared with black strap molasses, is simultaneously ridiculous and gruesome, a rare feat indeed:
Hannibal, by Thomas Harris - one of the best crime novels of the 1990's was Thomas Harris' The Silence of the Lambs. This sequel to the good but not exceptional "FBI man hunts a crazed killer" potboiler Red Dragon was that rarest of creatures, the sequel that was far better than its predecessor. Dark, beautifully written, and utterly terrifying, The Silence of the Lambs told the story of Jame Gumb, who "wants a girl suit made of real girls," Clarice Starling, the rookie FBI agent who hunts him down, and Hannibal Lecter, the brilliant, crazed doctor who's connected to them both. It won multiple genre awards, all deserved, and not only was one of the biggest sellers of the 1990's, but was recognized as a classic of its kind almost immediately.
If that weren't enough, the book was turned into an equally fine movie that won all five major Oscars (Best Picture, Best Director, Best Adapted Screenplay, and Best Actor and Actress), made nearly $300,000,000 at the box office, and was selected for preservation by the Library of Congress as culturally and artistically significant. The Silence of the Lamba became such a phenomenon that it's a rare person who can look at a bottle of Chianti, even now, without thinking of fava beans, liver (human), and Anthony Hopkins' indelible portrayal of Hannibal Lecter.
Lecter, brilliant, amoral, and obsessed with cooking humans in entertaining and amusing ways, is one of the great antagonists in popular culture. Originally a minor if significant character in Red Dragon), he truly comes into his own in The Silence of the Lambs as he taunts, analyzes, and at least partially outwits Clarice while still helping her save Jame Gumb's final victim. He's mesmerizing on the page, even more so on screen, and if it weren't for Jodie Foster's flawless turn as Clarice Starling, the movie might as well be named The Hannibal Lecter Show. Hopkins, a reliable character actor, became a superstar, and Hannibal Lecter joined the likes of the Wicked Witch of the West and Harry Lime as classic screen villains.
Given this, is it any wonder that Harris decided to write a sequel to his masterpiece? Or that this time, instead of focusing on the heroic Agent Starling, he decided to center the book on Dr. Lecter?
Thomas Harris is, by all accounts, a generous, talented, intelligent man who takes his work very seriously. He'd spent seven years writing and researching The Silence of the Lambs and devoted another eight years working on Hannibal, much of in secret, and it’s no exaggeration to say that few books in publishing history were as hotly anticipated as the latter. Delacorte Press printed 1.3 million copies in hardcover, and the vast majority of those flew right off the shelves into the arms of eager readers.
One of those eager readers was horror legend Stephen King, who was so impressed that he ranked it right up there with William Peter Blatty’s The Exorcist as one of the most frightening books of its time. Another big fan was Robert McCrum, who wrote The Guardian that Hannibal offered “the exquisite satisfaction of a truly great melodrama” to its readers. There were dissenters (most notably fantasist Charles de Lint), but overall the critics liked it. And of course there was a profitable movie adaptation, once again starring Anthony Hopkins, although original director Jonathan Demme and co-star Jodie Foster were replaced by, respectively, Ridley Scott and Julianne Moore.
There is little solid information on why two of the three members of the triumvirate that made the original film chose to give the sequel a pass. Demme might have been repulsed by the amount of gore in the sequel, or simply worried that he could never equal the original, while Foster was reportedly appalled by the development of Clarice's character and used her involvement in another project as an excuse to bow out. Even Anthony Hopkins waffled as to whether he'd play Hannibal Lecter again, with rumors that he finally insisted on approval of the leading lady and some judicious condensation of the original story.
It's hard to know just why at this point, over a decade later. However, it certainly makes sense that neither Demme nor Foster wanted to be associated with the following plot points in the book:
- Hannibal Lecter, so fascinating yet vile, becoming such a sympathetic character that by the end of the book the reader is supposed to be happy that he has ceased efforts to brainwash Clarice into thinking she is his long-dead sister (see below), taken her as his lover, and escaped to South America.
- Clarice, so stalwart and strong, is written so poorly that she willingly becomes Hannibal’s lover so he can help her create a “memory palace” where she can interact with her long-dead father when she isn’t letting Hannibal cook for her.
- Lecter captures Clarice’s nemesis, Paul Krendler, lobotomizes him, then prepares a dainty dish for his beloved of select cuts of Krendler’s pre-frontal cortex cooked with lovely fresh shallots.
- A secondary villain, Mason Verger, tries to get revenge on Lecter for grisly facial injuries by siccing a pack of wild boars on him. He also owns a pet moray eel, which is not nearly as charming as it sounds.
- An Italian policeman named “Pazzi” is murdered and field-dressed by Hannibal in a warped homage to the Pazzi conspiracy of Renaissance Florence.
- The revelation that Lecter became a cannibal after his younger sister, Mischa (which I’d always thought was a male nickname, but what do I know?), was killed and eaten by Nazi deserters during World War II.
- Verger’s sister, who wants a baby with her girlfriend, obtains a sperm sample from him through the judicious use of a cattle prod, then kills her brother by, and I swear to God I am not making this up, ramming the moray eel down his throat and choking him.
- Lecter presents Clarice with the exhumed bones of her father, then hypnotizes her so she can say good-bye and resolve her daddy issues. She is so grateful she becomes his lover and goes on the lam with him to South America.
Is it any wonder that two Oscar-winners might, just might, want to give this putrid, horrifying, ugly, gross beyond belief gently simmering concoction a miss? Or that even after Anthony Hopkins signed and Jodie Foster didn't, the writers and the new director omitted several subplots and changed the "Clarice and Hannibal sitting in a tree, k-i-s--s-i-n-g" ending?
Regardless of the reasons, the filmed version of Hannibal was another big hit, though not quite on the level of its predecessor. Reviews were mixed, and the level of misogyny in the film was high enough that observers questioned why an actress of Julianne Moore's stature decided to get involved, even without Clarice and Hannibal running away together. Roger Ebert was particularly scathing, declaring the film "a carnival geek show" and claiming that "if it proves nothing else, it proves that if a man cutting off his face and feeding it to his dogs doesn't get the NC-17 rating for violence, nothing ever will."
I can't disagree with that, my friends. Can you?
After the release of Hannibal, Anthony Hopkins, who tried and failed to interest the studio in a script he'd written where Clarice ends up tracking Hannibal down and killing him, did go on to play cinema's greatest cannibal one last time, in 2002's Red Dragon. Curiously enough, this film was an adaptation of Harris's first Hannibal Lecter novel, which had already been filmed by Michael Mann as Manhunter. That Hannibal looked noticeably older at the beginning of his adventures did not seem to factor into the equation, although the comparatively anemic critical and box office reception of Red Dragon II: Electric Boogaloo was not encouraging.
That might well have been the end of Hannibal Lecter, both as a character and as a franchise; not only were there no new books in the pipeline, the serial killer craze had just about run its course. Unless someone decided to turn Hannibal Lecter into a recurring villain in the tradition of Jason Voorhies or Freddy Kreuger, it seemed that Dr. Lecter had booked his last cinematic meal.
That was when legendary Hollywood producer Dino de Laurentiis got involved. This master of the malaprop, grandfather of cooking show host Giada de Laurentiis, and all-around hack still owned the film rights to Hannibal Lecter, and early in the 2000's he announced that he was planning a prequel about Hannibal Lecter's childhood with or without the involvement of his creator. Harris was so unhappy at the idea of his most famous character being subjected to the same treatment that brought the world the 1970's adaptation of King Kong that he abandoned his usual meticulous work process and churned out his own prequel, Hannibal Rising. This book, which came out in 2006 to a huge initial printing and very little critical acclaim, goes into rich, graphic, and frequently quite ridiculous detail about Hannibal Lecter’s childhood and early life.
Needless to say, the book was filmed, this time with not one but two actors (Aaran Thomas and Gaspard Ulliel) as Hannibal since Anthony Hopkins was simply too old to play Hannibal as a young man, let alone a child. The film only managed a 15% approval rating on Rotten Tomatoes and didn't make back its production cost, proving that for once, even the man they called "Dino de Horrendous" had made something that underestimated the taste of the American public.
It seemed that, at last, Hannibal Lecter had gone the way of all good fictional characters...at least until 2013 when yet another version of the greatest Chianti-drinker in pop culture blazed its way across the entertainment landscape. This time it was a television series set between Hannibal Rising and Red Dragon that featured Hannibal as a successful psychiatrist, consultant to the FBI, and gourmet chef with some exceedingly interesting recipes. Now played by Scandinavian actor Mads Mikkelson, who looks about as much like a young Anthony Hopkins as Gil the Wonder Cat looks like a Rolls Royce Silver Ghost, this version of Hannibal Lecter is so suave, so evil, and so delectably seductive in his dealings with FBI Agent Will Graham (played by Hugh Dancy), that the series became a modest hit.
It also sparked quite a bit of fanfiction, but you’ll have to look that up yourself. I’m feeling a bit peckish after a long day writing this flavorful entry for your dining and dancing pleasure and need to hit the larder.
I wonder if there are any fava beans in the house?
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What are your favorite thrillers? Your favorite serial killers? Do you watch the Hannibal TV show and write smutty cannibalistic fanfic oh god i'm going to be SO much trouble? It's a snowy Saturday night in New England, so gather 'round and share....
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