The Silence of the Lambs

My first exposure to The Silence of the Lambs was in the 8th grade—not from seeing the movie, but from reading the book. A few years later, I listened to Kathy Bates' famous narration of this book on tape, and at one point down the road (though I can't remember when), I finally saw the movie. Just recently I gave The Silence of the Lambs another viewing, and while it still remained the good story I remember from way back when, I was struck by several other factors this time around: like how compelling a film this is, how groundbreaking the shots were executed, and how stunning the performances are. It also struck me that, at the time it was released, the psychological thriller (particularly with serial killers as its focus) wasn't as big a medium as it is now (think Se7en, Zodiac), which may have been why it became such a mega-hit . . . and why it damn near swept the 1991 Oscars.

It was fiction author Thomas Harris who introduced the world to the character of Dr. Hannibal Lecter, and he has since gone down as one of the most notorious and fearful screen villains, courtesy of Anthony Hopkins' legendary portrayal. Though it wasn't until a few years ago that it finally became known (or at least widely known) that Hannibal Lecter's first appearance wasn't in The Silence of the Lambs. It was in Harris's previous novel, Red Dragon, that his genesis took place, in much the same circumstances, too—helping an FBI agent track down a killer. The novel Red Dragon was actually filmed in 1986 by director Michael Mann under the new title of Manhunter, starring William Petersen in the lead role and featuring Brian Cox as the good doctor. But it was Anthony Hopkins who firmly cemented the legacy of Dr. Lecter into cinematic history.

The Silence of the Lambs tells the story of FBI trainee Clarice Starling (Jodie Foster), who's recruited by division chief Jack Crawford (Scott Glenn) for a special assignment: interview the institutionalized serial killer Dr. Hannibal "The Cannibal" Lecter (Anthony Hopkins) in the hopes that Lecter will help create a psychological profile that'll aid in the capturing of another serial killer, "Buffalo Bill" (so nicknamed because he skins his victims). The FBI's got no leads on Buffalo Bill, and he's already claimed five victims. Things get enormously more complicated, too, when Bill kidnaps a sixth girl in Memphis . . . who just so happens to be the daughter of a U.S. Senator. But Lecter, who very likely knows the identity of Buffalo Bill from his psychiatrist years, likes to speak in riddles and innuendo, and his tête-à-têtes with Starling showcase how easily—and how irrevocably and inescapably—he can get into one's head. And that's exactly what Starling must risk in order to save Buffalo Bill's sixth victim.

What really struck me on this last viewing was something that I noticed way back during my first viewing many years ago: the straight-on shots of all the characters—i.e., most (if not all) of the characters looked directly at the camera when speaking. There was none of the customary filming, where the audience merely observes characters talking or acting; this was a full-on assault of the audience, having the characters being thrust right out at you, and it worked to amazing effect in The Silence of the Lambs. I can only think of a handful of films that have since utilized this technique (The Fountain is the only one that comes immediately to mind), but in 1991, this was definitely groundbreaking. And it afforded us real glimpses into the depths of the characters, allowing us to see their pains, their fears, their power . . . and allowing us to be manipulated in much the same fashion that Lecter manipulates Starling.

One of the best scenes to illustrate this technique is Starling's final meeting with Lecter, when he's holed up in the makeshift cell in a Memphis statehouse. Lecter's direct view to the audience, in supreme close-up, is amazingly and beautifully unnerving, and Starling's direct view shows how much the skeletons in her closet still haunt her. This is truly a magnificent scene.



I have to admit, it still puzzles me that this was awarded Best Picture at the 1991 Oscars. Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining! But it just strikes me as an uncharacteristic choice to nominate (let alone award) Best Motion Picture of the Year. Particularly when you factor in that year's competition: Bugsy, JFK, The Prince of Tides, and of all things, Beauty and the Beast. But then again, it occurs to me that maybe I have to view The Silence of the Lambs in the context of the time, much like The French Connection and its own Best Picture win in 1971. When viewed in today's context, it may not make a lot of sense. But when viewed in the context of the time it was released, when movies like this were new and visionary, it makes far more sense. Though I sure won't knock the acting awards it received! Anthony Hopkins was absolutely stellar, totally deserving his Best Actor award (though some have argued that it should have been Supporting Actor, since his screen time was somewhere in the vicinity of 16 or 17 minutes). Hopkins displayed Lecter as an intimate father-confessor and a terribly dangerous killer all in one. His escape from Memphis, where we only see his blank face while brutally beating another cop, is enough to make a guy shiver to the bone. And Jodie Foster, still somewhat fresh off her Oscar win for The Accused three years prior, shows how subtlety can actually be more revealing.

Though if I have one gripe about a performance, it was Scott Glenn as Jack Crawford. I don't know why, but Glenn kept him too straight and narrow for my tastes. I think his character had much greater, and more human, depth in the novel. Because in the novel, he's in the process of burying his wife during the Buffalo Bill search. Though Anthony Heald (who bears a terrifying resemblance to a certain chief executive who goes by his middle initial) did Dr. Frederick Chilton to a T, as Heald's Chilton was just as underhanded, manipulative, and opportunistic as he was in the novel.

And Ted Levine as Buffalo Bill? I remember reading somewhere that director Jonathon Demme called his performance "courageous", and I'd have to agree with that! The very nature of Jame Gumb's character was very unnerving, and required a very daring actor to pull it off: a serial killer who was a transsexual wannabe, killing his victims so he could use their skin to create a "girl suit", as it were. (I'd actually forgotten about his infamous "Goodbye Horses" scene until I saw Jason Mewes imitate it in Clerks 2.) There was actually a line in the novel that I wish they'd have used, because it essentially tricks the reader/viewer into thinking it's an enigmatic but ultimately meaningless bit of info at the beginning of the story, when in fact they've just been given the very nub of the story: I think it was during one of Starling's first visits with Lecter, when she asks why Buffalo Bill is killing his victims, and Lecter replies, "He wants a vest with tits."

And since we're talking about the original novel, the adaptation to the big screen remained very true to the book, which pleases me greatly—because it was in the early '90s when movie-book adaptations finally began remaining true to each other and not totally recreating stories (think some of the James Bond movies of old, which paralleled Ian Fleming's novels in title and character only). But not only were the characters well developed in The Silence of the Lambs, but moods and thought patterns were portrayed in very physical ways! For example, Starling at times has to fight for her place in the midst of a male-dominated world of law enforcement. For starters, when she boards the elevator at the beginning of the film to meet Crawford, she's not only the only female in the car, but is clearly the shortest person there—analogous to a small person living in a world of giants. A good physical analogy on the part of director Demme! Plus, the examination of a Buffalo Bill victim in a West Virginia funeral home added to this notion, where the contempt for Starling (and by extension, women in law enforcement) was very palpable when she's suddenly alone with all the silent, staring sheriff's deputies. How she gained professional respect with them was quite unexpected, but nevertheless clever: she spoke to them on their level—i.e., she donned her Southern accent and spoke to them as she would to another Southerner. That showed the deputies that she wasn't just another Washington bigwig, but instead was one of them.

9 out of 10! A well-made film that ushered in a new era in filming, setting the standard for psychological thrillers to come (even if it does feel a little dated).