Red Dragon was adapted to film three times. No cinematic portrayal has yet captured the particular majesty of its literary source, nor its subtle metaphysical quality, though each is interesting in its own right.
William Petersen remains my favorite Will Graham, and Manhunter the most sublime of the film versions, mainly for what it leaves unsaid. For how it draws you into a trance state through its hyper-modern design, full of minimalist white and chrome furnishings which emphasize empty space. It remains first and foremost a Michael Mann film, capturing the professionalism of being a G-man and Petersen's Will is allowed to return to domestic bliss upon its conclusion, cementing a kind of 80's optimism complete with cheesy synth music over the closing credits.
Ralph Fiennes remains my favorite on-screen Dolarhyde, mostly for he's the only actor who embodies the character's brutish physicality, though I don't particularly like the film he's in. The 2002 Red Dragon comes off like a cash-grab, capitalizing off the success of Silence of the Lambs, and its aesthetics -- while capturing more of the decaying contemporary gothic of its literary source -- are diminished by the film attempting to please too many masters. It reminds me of the similarly inferior late 90's film of The Talented Mr. Ripley, being both more loyal to what's on the page, as if to please legions of disappointed book readers, though also -- bloating the run-time with extraneous new subplots which flatter a general audience's pre-conceived biases. It frustrates you by giving you what you think you want, then doing its own thing anyway, though not very well, and you're left wishing it had just trimmed the fat and done something new instead of faffing about and having nothing new to say.
Edward Norton is by far my least favorite Will Graham, mostly for he comes across as a total charisma vacuum. Think the logic of casting him as Will was he was also a Hulk and the Narrator in Fight Club, so he's got cred struggling with latent psychopathy. Except in this he doesn't turn into a CGI monster or have Brad Pitt to play off him. Will is a complete entity in his own right and Edward Norton seems like a mask or shell.
NBC's Hannibal is the best adaptation of Red Dragon until it comes time to adapt Red Dragon, at which point it feels largely perfunctory.
As an adaptation, Hannibal is endlessly fascinating. Bryan Fuller compared himself to a remix artist, and that assessment is spot on.
When I watched the series for the first (and thus far only) time, I had just re-read the original trilogy, so I could see with fresh eyes and hear with open ears, the ways he turned bits of interior monologue into dialogue, fleshed-out the backstory, moved things around, changed the pace and flow through subtle re-framings. The closest point of comparison really is Mary Harron's excellent film of American Psycho (which distills to a sleek 102 minutes a work of four-dimensional Dostoevyskian tragedy masquerading as brand-name gore shlock), not only for how it juxtaposes primal violence with gourmet cooking, but narratively, structurally, in how it remixes and reinvents; turning Patrick Bateman's book-end revelation of his void state from a late-onset cry of despair to a stoic thesis statement simply part of his morning routine.
Bryan Fuller reinvents so much, draws out the queer subtext so totally, and ultimately has to -- the story he's telling is fundamentally about a man facing himself, being repulsed, but ultimately liking what he sees. The literary Will spurns Hannibal's one-side affections forever, which come across simply as sardonic taunts from a predator; yearning to take shelter in a woman's arms, but ending up deformed, for his primary opposite is the wounded Dolarhyde, not the Dark Prince Hannibal.
Hugh Dancy's Will is an entirely different beast. Every episode begins with based on Red Dragon, but the emphasis is right there in the title.
I suspect Bryan Fuller felt like he had to introduce Clarice at some point and kept putting it off because she had no place in the world he created. It's not only that his Will and his Hannibal are in love, and he'd be introducing a primordial tension into his own dark fantasy. The literary Will Graham may as well become Clarice. They share the same descent into the underworld to speak to the Devil Behind Bars. They speak to the same agent of unconscious revelation to get into the mind of a killer.
They are of the same mind, being both of Thomas Harris.
The Silence of the Lambs onward is a transgender narrative, not an androphilic one. The literary Clarice, prideful, self-assured, totally lacking in bullshit other than what's been trained into her, is an immediate delight. She's the one who ends up under Hannibal's control -- consent gradually surrendered -- as her true wants are revealed through drugs, hypnosis, childhood regression, the exhumation of her father's corpse. As Dolarhyde is the literary Will's shadow, so is Buffalo Bill Clarice's. She yearns to become a lawman like her father the sheriff, he yearns to become a beauty queen like the implied memory of his absent mother.
Will sees himself as a deformed monster. Clarice sees herself as a manufactured Other. Hannibal is inside both their heads.
The Devil Likes Him Some Cornpone Country Pussy.
The third book is titled Hannibal because Hannibal is its protagonist, even if for the bulk of it we follow Clarice. I had read an Amazon review back in 2008 or so, where someone accused it of being "clearly ghostwritten" because of its shift in narrative voice, yet this is wishful thinking. Its told from the detached, birds-eye view of a hyper-lucid Luciferian madman who is accounting for and manipulating all variables, luring all the extant players into his web of associations to claim his final prize.
I enjoy Ridley Scott's film version, for it's a Ridley Scott film. He has a well-studied classicism, but also a very down-to-earth ruggedness which fits the material perfectly. Most of his excisions are sensible, considering the running time. (Margot being even more politically volatile in the early 2000's when the backlash to Buffalo Bill seemed to be the trans representation issue... none, it would seem, being better than something easy to caricature by the heterosexual masses.) I recall a comment Scott made about thinking Hannibal was "turned-on" by Clarice's sense of Justice, and it being immediately clear this was his own fetish, not necessarily something implied by the text. (Picture now, Scott and James Cameron Bro-ing out about how he leveled up Ellen Ripley.)
Julianne Moore is a great replacement for Foster, being now an older, more jaded woman. The film is so deliberate, I appreciate how it inverts its literary counterpart's Satanic ending moreso than say -- the earlier un-alluded to Purple Noon, where Tom Ripley is brought to justice as if entangled in the umbilical thread of fate. Rather than Clarice being seduced by Hannibal, Hannibal is seduced by Clarice, chopping off his own hand much like a chastised young Tyr to a She-wolf Fenrir.
Bryan Fuller's treatment of the novelistic material here is close to about the only point in the series I'd call vacuous and self-indulgent.
It feels like he's subverting the pacing for the sake of being contrarian rather than giving his story room to breathe. Maybe it's because I like Scott's Hannibal so much, Fuller's treatment of the same scenes and characters feels like a pale imitation, of both its literary source and its filmic predecessor, yet I feel intuitively I may have been overwhelmed or alienated by the void of heartbreak, my rational faculties rebelling against what seems to be implications of a telepathic reality. I suspect those episodes will always be a mixed bag, being both too slow and too fast, largely for how behind-the-scenes tensions introduced conflicts into the pacing. Now understanding that his Will is replacing Clarice, and Clarice can only become the Bride of Satan by mutual recognition, I find Will's need to dive into Hannibal's past necessary, though by this point, the characters had largely outgrown whatever sources may have inspired them, and even if the second half of season 3 is more even, it feels constrained by the skeleton of its intended adaptation.
The Silence of the Lambs has been adapted to film precisely once, and it captures the essence of the novel almost well-enough to render it redundant. There's near nothing missing. What's cut is stitched back together with a surgical elegance befitting a master cosmetician.
The film is so sleek and streamlined, its makes corresponding sections of the novel seem clunky and bloated. When I remember the events of the story, I confess, I tend to remember the film better than the book, the way William Faulkner remembered his own evolving private daydreams of Candace Compson moreso than whatever it was he'd published in The Sound and the Fury -- "If you'll excuse me, I'm having an old friend for dinner." (Lecter's chemistry-based shit joke about Chilton is an absolute riot, though. Terrible it couldn't make it in.)
Anthony Hopkin's Lecter would never have become as iconic as he is without Jodi Foster's Clarice. As an adaptation, it's a masterpiece precisely because its a collaboration. Everyone on-screen is embodying a particular flavor of unspoken obsession, and everyone behind the camera is capturing it with an almost documentary realism, the same way Harris's prose has a journalistic objectivity, even when he's touring the fetid landscapes of his own inner hell. It works so well because there's no sole author to be burdened by the weight of the material. Its dispersed throughout the entire cast and crew and everyone is there for each other.
Furthermore, the story is inherently cinematic in a way Red Dragon simply isn't. Clarice is a plucky young professional woman looking to make it in a man's world, while Will Graham is retreating into early retirement for the duress the work is inflicting upon his tattered mind.
Will's isolation is chosen. Clarice's is imposed from without. We see her running the obstacle course alone. We see how male law enforcement officers look at her on the job. We see how even her own superiors need to play mindgames and switcheroos and put her at a disadvantage.
She has to play quid-pro-quo with Hannibal. She has to open up. She has to share. Will knows what Hannibal is because he's like him in a way she isn't. He can't be seduced by him. His pain is too constant, the threat too real. The literary Will lacks a certain feminine charm, which Mads's Hannibal is well-acquainted with, already seeming to have found some part of Mischa again in his friend and protégé, the gender-swapped Alana Bloom, who is also surrogate sister to Will, making them brothers.
In contrast, the novel Red Dragon is about highly introspective men being alone with themselves and thinking intense thoughts. The portraits of Will and Dolarhyde's psyches are two interlocked soliloquies which brutally clash like gongs by the conclusion. The literary Will, Dolarhyde and Hannibal are all playing the same game of cat and mouse from a distance, each alone with themselves. Hugh Dancy's Will is not only made more cinematic, but also incidentally charmingly feminine by having his monologues cut up into dialogue, as he's forced to physically converse with Hannibal, who in this version he's meeting for the first time.
The visual emphasis is also why it's so easy to reduce the filmic Buffalo Bill to a gay monster. The ways in which they function as a dark mirror to Clarice are not as obvious when you lose their interiority. When you simply present their sensual butterfly dance while the fat girl (Hollywood fat, of course) screams for help in the pain well, they become a blank screen for the audience to project their own fears of seeing or being an Other, but in a public place -- surrounded by people similarly disgusted, each a participant in the ultimate pretension of normality.
What makes the novel of The Silence of the Lambs unique is how its unmistakably a sequel to Red Dragon. The film version of Silence of the Lambs exists in relation to nothing but itself. Thomas Harris is repeating his previous work's structure, now with different characters.
It's much easier to get Clarice's interiority on-screen when you have Jodi Foster's eyes and voice to work with, and in the book she retains Will's quality of brooding intensity, but with an awareness of how what she says aloud supports and contradicts her interior monologue, which is naturally contrasted with Bill's. You can see the Clarice/Bill entanglement as a logical repeat of the Will/Dolarhyde one, and with this absent, the filmic emphasis shifts to Clarice's darkly subdued romance with Hannibal, which similarly becomes the emphasis in Bryan Fuller's television version, but with the focus of his meet-cute being Will.
That Silence of the Lambs should be such a crowd-pleaser is no surprise. It's the only entry in the original trilogy which has a happy ending which falls within the dictates of the common tribal morality. The killer is caught. The woman is saved. Clarice is redeemed and graduates on-time. Her professional surrogate father is proud of her. Hannibal escapes. An element of danger remains. A sequel promised. It doesn't ask us to dramatically re-shift our focus or reconsider all we know.
A rare act two high note.
The Devil is in the Details, and details are the domain of long-term prose.
Reading is itself a solitary and introspective activity. That is, unless one is reading scripture. That a man should realize the degree to which he is like a Devil Himself, or how that same Devil He Is could be the sole True Want of just and upright professional woman, for the so-called "Good Men" who uphold the law fear and revile her, isn't the type of thing you'd want to share communally with loved ones, unless you're willing to take on the responsibility of hurting them in the way they need to be hurt.
