Hannibal
He's back, and so is the horror genre.

In Danse Macabre, Stephen King divides the ambition of the horror novelist threefold. Terror is the finest emotion, he says, and if he cannot terrify, he will attempt to horrify. And if that fails? "I'll go for the gross-out," he admits, adding, "I'm not proud."

That ain't no fava beans and chianti, kids.

There will be many who will see King's sheepish strategy played out in Hannibal, the movie adaptation of the 1999 Thomas Harris novel sequel that still stands as one of the greatest love-hate books in recent memory. Denounced as poorly plotted, a betrayal of the themes and characters of Red Dragon and The Silence of the Lambs, and just really, really gross, Hannibal was nonetheless enjoyed, quietly, by many. Quietly because there really is no pat answer for questions like, "But what about that scene with the pigs? And why so much detail as to what exactly happened to Mason's face? And how could you defend the idea of Clarice eating brains?" Clarice Starling, feminist hero to many a genre fan, one of the most interesting, invigorating women in all of the genre's history. How could anyone defend this?

There is no reasonable reply to any of these questions, and that is the glory of Hannibal, the novel that finally stated who the true hero of this sick and sordid tale was. The story of Hannibal is morbid, decadent, at times very depressing; Hannibal Lector, the man, is attractive, charismatic, and it is the collision of these two sentiments that claimed Clarice as well as fans of the novel -- and now, the movie. Hannibal does not really say that evil wins, but simply presents different evil in differing aesthetics. The novel begins with FBI agent Starling tormented by her fatal shooting of a mother in a failed stakeout; reaches its midsection with a portrait of deranged Mason Verger, a former Lector victim brimming with sadomasochistic impulse; and ends with the triumph of Hannibal, who has seduced Clarice into his refined world of opera, gourmet dining, classic literature and, oh, yeah, cannibalism. (This ending was changed for the film; I'm not giving anything away.) Hannibal the movie, richly directed by Ridley Scott, is similarly bound in such a mindset; with parts of the plot altered or missing, it relies more on graphic imagery -- whether luscious Tuscan scenery or a man with the top of his head neatly sliced off. It is grotesque in the most classic sense of the word.

Remember when this guy was a babe? Ray Liotta as Paul Krendler in Hannibal.

Unfortunately, it's also poorly paced, occasionally campy, and, despite all the freshly cut brains, decidedly less than cerebral. Those expecting Silence of the Lambs are in for a disappointment, but hardcore fans probably already know this from the book. However, as a purely visceral experience, as a virtual catalogue of sensations ranging from the most hideously malformed to the most sophisticated and beautiful, Hannibal is a fantastic movie. It's almost as if the movie was directed by Lector himself -- it is that detailed and unflinching in its attachment to aesthetic extremes. If Lambs was the world through Clarice's eyes -- pragmatic, intense, wary -- than this is the delirious, ever so confident counterpart. The rambling plot and over-the-top imagery makes for uneasy viewing, but that's what many great horror films -- think Tod Browning or Dario Argento -- are all about.

And thankfully, Hannibal has a number of great performers keeping its ostentatious impulses in check. Aside from Hopkins -- picking up the role seamless from where he left off-- is Julianne Moore, reprising Foster's role from Lambs. While purists may protest, in many ways Moore is a far better choice; in Hannibal's sick world, her sensuous, breezy style of acting is far more appropriate than Foster's intellectualism or tenacity. Forced into situations far more bizarre and melodramatic than Foster, Moore nonetheless plays it down, a nice contrast for the real deviants like Verger, played by an unrecognizable Gary Oldman. Skinless and deformed, with liquid eyes about to drip out of his face, Oldman is truly frightening -- until he's shot in the clear light of day and you realize he looks a casting reject from a Tales From the Crypt audition. But this is why Hannibal works -- its horrifying, then funny, and then -- as this crazed mutant adjusts his old man glasses -- unnervingly true.

"Dude, that mask is so 1991." "Yeah, yeah..."

This is the key to Hannibal -- for all of the obsession with human ugliness and classical beauty, it's the mundanity that truly frightens. Walking down the streets of Florence, Hannibal's true nature is never detected in his unremarkable guise; Starling, on the other hand, always attempts to strive away from her unremarkable background and upbringing. Harris plays off this theme with the character of Pazzi (wonderfully played by Giancarlo Gianinni), an everyday Italian detective whose last name has a historical significance Hannibal will never let him forget. This is why the book, and the movie, succeed -- you can have a scene shot in a mall, in a trough full of oversized killer pigs, in a lush Italian opera house, in the sterile offices of the FBI, and there will always be an opening for Hannibal, ever chameleonic, methodical, and inevitable. The film doesn't terrify, or horrify, and it does go for the gross-out -- but in an examination of evil as ambivalent as this, sometimes the sight of carved, wet brain is all you need to drive the message home.

DROOL FACTOR: Ray Liotta was a lot cuter back when he was all young and stalwart in Goodfellas. And when he didn't have his brains leaking out of his head.

GROSS-OUT FACTOR: The most graphic movie since The Cell -- and equally as disturbing. Unique in that the camera does not cut away; the squeamish will miss minutes at a time covering their eyes.

STRONG CHICK FACTOR: More like 'Failed Humanity Factor.' Moore's Starling is as tough and intelligent as ever; however, she's just as complex and miserable and helpless as any of the other characters -- mostly men -- in the film. But it's good to see a female fallen hero once in a while.

-- Sarah Kendzior

Hannibal is now playing.

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