Off his feed

Thomas Harris' undigestible mixture of black comedy and sublime horror causes one fan to lose his appetite

By David Bowman

Jun 11, 1999 | Alarmists have warned the reading public that Thomas Harris' much-anticipated sequel to "Silence of the Lambs" is over the top. Come on. Could the continuing saga of an American cannibal be anything but extreme? The problem with "Hannibal" is that it doesn't go far enough over the top.

By now, most pop culture fans have heard about the big dinner scene in Harris' new bestseller, a scene in which Dr. Hannibal Lecter introduces a novice cannibal to the delight of eating one's enemy's brain. Forget what Sicilians say about revenge being a dish best served cold; the brains in question are not only served hot, but the victim himself is fully conscious as his thoughts are literally dished out as an appetizer. Now of course this scene is: Horrifying! Absurd! Food for thought! Potentially it is also a scenario worthy of our best writers. It could be used as a metaphor for the triumph of 21st century consumer culture over the human spirit. The victim could spout Robert Stone-ish biblical proclamations: "Out of the eater came forth meat, and out of the strong sweetness." But Harris doesn't aim higher in his big brain-eating scene than second-rate Grand Guignol. Lecter's victim says the same petty things he did when his skull was intact, then starts singing "Would You Like to Swing on a Star" -- which is just Harris borrowing from Stanley Kubrick's "2001," in which (my namesake) David Bowman pulls Hal's brain apart while the computer sings "A Bicycle Built for Two." Kubrick's scene has pathos and is art. Harris' scene is pure sadism if you're a vegetarian and perhaps, if you're a meat eater, merely practical: Lecter suggests that a little sorbet is perfect follow-up to a bowl of brains.

If most of the horror scenes in "Hannibal" are as deep as the "Texas Chainsaw Massacre," too much of plot is burdened with the job problems of Lecter's co-star, Clarice Starling. She, as we all know, is the tough cookie FBI agent we first met in "Silence of the Lambs." The woman is now 32; she "always looked her age and she always made that age look good, even in fatigues." Our G-woman functions as the female equivalent of Martin Cruz Smith's no-nonsense and resourceful Russian detective Arkady Renko. Which would be fine, if our spunky heroine's biggest challenge was avoiding being screwed over professionally by a sexist FBI agent who resents her early rise up the crime-stopper ladder. Now, women of America, surely you will agree with what I'm about to say: This conflict could fuel a simple police procedural, but in a novel purporting to address the morality of eating human flesh, it's hard to get too riled up over everyday sexism.

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