Skip to main content

The Silence of the Lambs

I'm ridiculously excited about Thomas Harris's new novel, "Cari Mora," and so: a few thoughts herein:

*Harris invented Hannibal Lecter--named by Stephen King "the greatest of modern monsters." And who could disagree?

*Harris hasn't released a non-Lecter novel since--approx.--the 1730s, and actually the only non-Lecter Harris work, beyond "Cari Mora," is "Black Sunday," about terrorists hoping to blow up a blimp over the Super Bowl, or something like this. (Weirdly prescient!) In childhood, I dreamed of writing a novel in which good and bad faced off at a baseball game, and the bad guy was outed by tumbling down the "safety net" that protects fans from fly balls. As he fell, the bad guy would lose possession of a scrap of paper, and on that paper you would find all his nefarious secrets. I see now this is a "Black Sunday" rip-off.

*Jodie Foster almost wasn't Clarice. Michelle Pfeiffer could have taken the part, but turned it down, because of excessive creepiness.

*Anthony Hopkins won his Best Lead Actor Oscar despite appearing on-screen for apparently something like eight minutes. "Lambs" is a rare case where one film won Best Picture, Best Actor, and Best Actress at the Oscars.

*Bryan Fuller saw Hannibal for what he was--a metaphor for gay life in America. Homosexual genius Fuller re-envisioned Hannibal himself as a homosexual genius--a creepy outsider, capable of "de-familiarizing" everything, making us see art, clothing, food, and music in new and alarming ways. Finding the ugly in the beautiful and the beautiful in the ugly. In Fuller's capable hands, the Hannibal/Will relationship became a perverse homoerotic romance. Eventually, the two men seemed to die in an embrace. I rarely understood what was happening in Fuller's "Hannibal," but I was mesmerized.

*Harris is indirectly responsible for giving us Gillian Anderson in an icy mask--murmuring about murdering people, while sitting in a beautiful Venetian villa. And so we must all be forever grateful to Harris.

*The new novel is out today. Obsessed! Please enjoy!

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...