Hannibal Rising

 By Thomas Harris

 Review by Stephen Studach 

A brilliant read!  Here is a lesson in how to construct a genre novel, an education in style and substance.  The dark thriller as haiku.

        Thomas Harris:  for my money the score sheet should show that ‘Red Dragon’ (1981) is the best book and ‘The Silence of The Lambs’ (1991) the best filmed version of the books.  Some have in hindsight lauded ‘Manhunter’ (1986), the first ‘Red Dragon’ film interpretation.  But in comparison with Silence – you’ve got to be kidding.  If you haven’t already, read ‘Red Dragon’ then check out the far-less-than satisfying film by the over hyped Michael Mann.  The second cinematic attempt upon the first novel, ‘Red Dragon’ (2002), also failed to embody the superlatives of the book.

        After the excesses of ‘Hannibal’ now this fourth book in the cycle arrives, in comparison almost out of nowhere and unheralded, in more than one way the polar opposite of the preceding tome.  ‘Hannibal’ is probably the least of the books to feature the good doctor but the most ballyhooed and the one that garnered the biggest prize financially for its author.  That lucrative ground was set by ‘The Silence of The Lambs’, an engrossing book as well as the finest of the films featuring the gourmet doctor.  Here now is ‘Hannibal Rising’, which does not shout or bluster, but speaks quietly and lyrically in a well modulated, slightly accented voice from a dark compartment of the psyche.

         One should not compare these books really, for each is a quite different work.  For me the most interesting component of the epic neo gothic horror comic of ‘Hannibal’ was the hint of the terrible fate of Lecter’s baby sister.  Herein we have that fate recounted, our forebodings fully justified.

        This work basically covers Hannibal’s life from two years of age to eighteen.  It opens in Lithuania with an eight year old Hannibal, living in an all too brief idyll of a loving, extended family unit on the ancestral estate.  The naturally gifted boy (grasping the printed word at two, using Euclidian theory to measure the height of Lecter Castle’s towers by the length of their shadows) is growing up in an environment of thoughtful, gentle tutelage and contemplation.  An intellectual, friendly haven.  Could it go any way but wrong?

         It is 1941, the Germans have entered on the wings of their blitzkrieg and the evolution of Hannibal Lecter into a stone cold uber killer is about to begin.  The remnants of the Lecter group successfully shelter in their isolated hunting lodge for three and a half years.  In the winter of 44-45 the Germans are retreating from the Russians.  Tanks, planes and desperate people are on the move, and things are about to get very, very bad.  Starvation is a grim and ever present fact; shoe leather has become a delicacy, the grease from someone’s comb is sucked free with relish.  Terrible deeds are not far away.

        From invasion to retreat, to grim boarding school the warped fabric of the Lecter tapestry is woven.  A small bereft boy in the snow with a chain padlocked about his neck, an empty loop at the other end of it, is a fine symbolic metaphor.  His ill fate seems to turn when he is adopted into the care of his uncle Robert, an artist, and his wife, the superb Lady Murasaki.

        Though this book is concerned with the age-old revenge motif it is not just about murder most foul.  It is also about love.  Several different types of love.  

         This one cements Hannibal Lecter’s status as an anti hero to stand with the likes of John Doe from that final word in cinematic serial killers ‘Seven’.  Some, not unfairly, have placed Lecter’s literary character’s standing with the likes of Dracula, Moriarty and Mister Hyde.  Through our old friend Hannibal’s exploits some of us may yet again be made aware that there really are some people at large in the world who should not draw another breath of air.  Were all his victims, in fact, deserving?

        ‘Hannibal Rising’s power is in its concise brevity and the central intelligence that strengthens it.  Sadly, literature is far from the only place where intelligent content has been devalued.  We are drawn into Lecter’s motivations and philosophies more completely than ever before.  The characterisation is effectively and seemingly effortlessly sketched; the stone ground black ink characters set upon snow white paper, Japanese calligraphy telling a type of aberrant fairy tale.  Even animals in the story, from cricket to horse, dog to swans are given their due in regards to the character lines quickly stroked by this masterful artist.  His slow and ritualised raking in the garden exposes body parts.  Yet, all the sides and facets of the main character are not revealed.  We are looking through a cracked open door into a darkened room here and that is all we are allowed.

         There is a scene therein where a man is executed via guillotine whilst young Hannibal and a doctor wait in an adjoining room.  We are allowed to hear a heavy thud, we see nothing.  The doctor advises a wait of a few minutes, to allow the executed man to ‘settle down’.  In such simplicity effectiveness crouches, smiling.  As with much of the violence, so it is with the enigma that is Hannibal Lecter.

         The characterisations, from primary to fifth business are well set as usual, each a minimum of strong black marks and delicate curves upon a hand-made parchment background.  The experienced genre reader will see certain storyline pieces coming into play, but they are no less satisfying for that.

         If you were ever intrigued by what Lecter’s childhood would have been like read this and relish these revelations.  A pleasure to read.  There must be at least one more adventure of this artistic gourmand anatomist to come.  Harris has written the screenplay for the film as well, which will, at least, make it necessary viewing.

         Thomas Harris recently received a lifetime achievement award from the Horror Writers’ Association, though a far from prolific author quality is his raison ďętre and such an accolade bestowed is well deserved.

        You will read this book quickly, but that does not intimate shallowness nor an overtly kinetic writing style.  Hannibal has indeed risen, but only the top of his head, those eyes and the connoisseur’s nose are visible, as he peers at us from that distractingly placid surface over dark depths of the human psyche...