down a week later, it was not unexpected:n”Steve, I think we were closer to itnon the second draft. But Steve,” — thisnis the unkindest cut of all — “you gavenit your best shot.” My best shot? No,nthat would have been a .38 slug innHarvey’s omniscient puppik.nWhile a Bronson-like ending wouldnhave been the most satisfying for thisngothic story, I’m going to have to settlenfor the milder satisfaction of writingnthis cautionary tale and, in so doing,nhelping to raise the paranoia level ofnaspiring film writers to its proper level.nMeanwhile, until the next call comesnasking me to sell out, I’m camping outnin the balcony of the local Rep House.nYou can’t miss me; I’m the one rollednup in a fetal ball, leafing through antattered Rolls-Royce owner’s manual,nmentally recasting Caligula.nStephen Provizer writes fromnCambridge, Massachusetts.nIntimations ofnMortalitynby David R. SlavittnThe Silence of the LambsnProduced by Kenneth Ull, EdwardnSaxon, and Ron BozmannDirected by Jonathan DemmenWritten by Ted TalleynFrom the novel by Thomas HarrisnReleased by OrionnOpen DoorsnProduced by Angelo RizzolinDirected by Gianni AmelionWritten by Vicenzo Ceraminand Mr. AmelionFrom the novel by Leonardo SciascianReleased by Orion ClassicsnHonesty in movie-reviewing is angiddy business, which is what Insuppose Robert Warshow meant whennhe wrote that the most difficult thing anmovie critic has to do is “admit he wasnthere.” What do you do when youncatch yourself liking some obviouslyncontrived and even stupid piece ofnkitch? How do you convey accuratelynthe kitchiness that was also, in its dopeynor manipulative way, engaging and effective?nEven more awkwardly, what donyou do if you find yourself wool-gathering,neven dreaming, having dozed offnfor a bit? Do you go ahead and reviewnyour dreams?’nJust short of that absurd extremity isnthe response required by the kind ofnmovie that plays to basic assumptionsnthat may never actually be specified butnthat are obviously in operation. If thenappeal of the movie depends on somenkind of mythopoetic engineering, it cannbe important to try to make explicit andncoherent these peculiar assumptions,nnot necessarily because the excellencenof the film requires such analysis, butnbecause the commercial success of thenenterprise suggests that the guesses ofnthe producer, director, and screenwriternwere, this time at least, shrewd andncorrect. There is an authority if not anneternal truth to these bizarre soundingsnof the popular mind. Money talks, andntens of millions of dollars may havensomething important to tell us.nAll of this is prefatory to—and a kindnof apology for—my discussion of ThenSilence of the Lambs, JonathannDemme’s silly but successful horrornfilm with Anthony Hopkins and JodienFoster. It is hardly an estimablenachievement in cinema—and isn’t tryingnto be. Down-and-dirty, it flirts withnsleaze and flaunts its gore. For a certainnkind of knowledgeable cineaste, therenis even a litfle in-joke in Roger Gorman’sncameo appearance as the directornof the FBI, Gorman being the oldnschlock-meister whose films providednmodest employment for Boris Karloff,nPeter Lorre, and Vincent Price at thenend of their careers in a series ofnAmerican-International cheap-jacknpastiches of Poe. But these sly nods tonthe cognoscenti are not reassuring. Allnthey mean is that the basic appeal ofnthe movie is strong enough and crudenenough to allow for a few randomngestures of self-consciousness (or apologynor denial). We must not allownourselves to be distracted by artsy embellishment.nThe story is a curious one. JodienFoster is Glarice Starling, the notquite-yetnSpecial Agent of the FBIn(she’s still in training) dispatched toninterview Anthony Hopkins (HannibalnLector, M.D., or “Hannibal the Gannibal”—he’sna brilliant psychoanalystnwho is now himself confined in annexquisitely medieval institution for thencriminally insane because he is a serialnnnkiller who eats his victims). The objectnof this interview is for the pretty youngnStarling to enlist the wicked doctor’snaid in the apprehension of yet anothernserial killer presentiy on the loose whonhas been flaying large young women innorder to sew himself a dress made ofntheir skins.nNone of this bloody business is quitenserious. There is an occasional frissonnof cheery disgust when one maniac ornthe other cuts up a bit, but what wennotice is Hopkins’s performance — sonsuave, polished, and sophisticated as tonbe endearing. And that’s what is supposednto strike terror into the hearts ofnthe audience and impress them as evil.nNever mind that he eats people, corpsesnor morsels he can snap from a livingnbut occasionally unwary guard; what’snsinister is that he plays Bach inventionsnon his cassette recorder and has copiesnof Poetry lying around in his cell —nalong with recent issues of BonnAppetit. He is able to do a detailedndrawing of the duomo of Florencenfrom memory — and it is his talent,ntaste, and refinement that set him apartnand, therefore, make him a monster.nHe is not accidentally named — he isn”Lector,” the man who knows how tonread! Intellectuals are bad people,nthen? Gannibals ravening off the restnof us? Precisely so.nThe declension is from SherlocknHolmes, with whom we used to identifyn(as opposed to Lestrade, that contemptiblenbureaucratic oaf), to the innocent,nnot-quite-dry-behind-the-earsntrainee, Foster’s Starling, the helplessnand drab little bird who is our stand-innnow and is forced to abase herself innnot-so-subtle ways because she needsnthe help of the dangerous but warpednmind on the other side of the protectivenglass.nDr. Lector is able to categorizenStarling at once, and we are almost asnstartled as she when he announces thatnshe has a good bag but cheap shoes andnobserves that her accent is not yetnsufficientiy erased to disguise her originnin some coal-mining town in WestnVirginia. He can sniff the air andnannounce that she sometimes wearsnL’Air du Temps, “but not today.” Thisnpatina of civility and cultivation onlynmakes Lector’s savagery more impressivenand more frightening — and thenunspoken message that animates thenjumbled and fitfully plotted movie isnAUGUST 1991/47n