(S P O I L E R S)
In
which you are wearing a very well-tailored person suit.
The beauty of Hannibal Lecter as
a character, the allure of his anti-heroic charisma, is founded in a deep sense
of theatricality. It’s no surprise that
his status as a pop culture icon didn’t occur until Anthony Hopkins brought an
arch-melodramatic flair to the role (even though he famously only has 16
minutes of screen time in The Silence of
the Lambs, not that much more than Brian Cox had in his more reserved take
on Lecter in Manhunter.) Despite the continuing influence of the
naturalistic school of serious acting, there’s always enjoyment to be had in
watching a performance that’s larger than life, especially when it flowers in
the confines of a verite world (note the legion of Lecter-esque anti-heroes
that has proliferated in film and television since 1991.) And in a universal sense, there’s an
undeniable pleasure we derive from watching a master performer at work; it’s
the old codependent dynamic between a magician and their audience, the art of
the con taken to quasi-theatrical heights.
As I’ve mentioned before, Mads
Mikkelsen’s take on Hannibal is a fascinating hybrid of the icy sociopathy of
Cox and the refined, cultured theatricality of Hopkins. He’s often an emotional cypher, and yet the
control of his physicality he shows is almost like that of a mime, graceful and
dancerly, imbuing even the most subtle of gestures and reactions with diamond
bullet power. As a result, the rare
instances of brutality he displays early in the show’s run take on a shattering
force, like a leopard pouncing on its prey.
Following the plot-heavy
machinations of “Entrée”, “Sorbet” (true to its name) offers a narrative palate
cleanser before the final descent into madness that awaits in the final stretch
of episodes. And in true Hannibal fashion, it’s an interlude that
is the most overtly operatic one so far, a trenchant analysis of the performative
impulse and all of its complications.
The production design of Will’s
lecture hall at Quantico has always been tailored toward the theatrical nature
of his lectures (and of the historically theatrical nature of teaching), so it’s
appropriate that “Sorbet” opens on his class discussion of the Chesapeake
Ripper’s history. Will is such an odd
case when it comes to the pedagogical model; his wildly anti-social tendencies
run counter to the traditional model of the charismatic professor, and yet in
his lecture scenes he’s a consistently compelling figure, the darkness within
him creating an electric stage presence.
As he notes that “there is a distinctive brutality” in the Ripper’s
crimes, the camera focuses on his POV of Jack, one half of the father figure
duo which has so brutalized his psyche in the first half of the season. When the camera cuts back to Will, the image
of Miriam Lass immediately pops up on the screen behind him. Now it’s Jack’s POV of these two proteges,
one seemingly dead, one seemingly doomed, both playing a role whose tragic
nature seems utterly circumscribed in its fabric. The point is driven home with blunt force at
the end of the episode, when he envisions Will’s corpse rising from the morgue
table, his missing left arm forever fusing him with Miriam.
The scene that follows (at the
slyly titled Concert for Hunger Relief), fully immerses the viewer in Hannibal’s
classical opera leanings, so much so that the camera begins in the featured
singer’s throat. After all, the
performance of our lives may be convincing, but behind it all we’re still all
just a collection of slimy interior organs and muscles joining together to portray
humanity. Hannibal never forgets this,
as he ultimately reduces his victims to their base nature: pieces that are
meant to be absorbed into the remaining players. But still, the collaborative efforts of these
dancing bags of flesh aren’t without their moments of transcendence, as the
camera shows when it gradually pulls back from the singer, up into the
audience, and then spirals into Hannibal’s right ear. The effect is an invocation of the hypnotic, seductive
nature of music, but also a reminder of the spiritual vortex that lies at the
heart of this man.
Hannibal’s performative nature is
referred to several times throughout this episode. When she asks him why he hasn’t cooked for
her and her friends for so long, Mrs. Komeda notes “Have you seen him
cook? It’s an entire performance”, to
which Hannibal replies “You cannot force a feast. A feast must present itself” and that he’ll
resume his parties “when inspiration strikes” (the classic, romantic motivator
for the artistic mind.) Will diagnoses
the Chesapeake Ripper as being a performer at heart, whose graphic dissections
serve as public shamings of his victims, while hiding “the true nature of his
crimes.” During their later therapy
session, Franklin and Hannibal debate his ability to be a friend, Hannibal
insisting that the only role he can play is that of doctor. They also discuss Franklin’s dream of
befriending Michael Jackson, a pop icon who seemed to only be comfortable in
his skin when performing.
This reference to the deceased
King of Pop is one of the funniest moments of “Sorbet”, and yet it’s also one
of the most instructive, especially as it pertains to the introduction of
Bedelia Du Maurier, Hannibal’s retired colleague and personal psychiatrist. For after six episodes of watching the good
doctor masterfully manipulate all those around him in a grand, amoral experiment,
this is the first time that the audience sees the lost soul within him. Franklin may seem pathetic when he begs
Hannibal to be his friend, but he plays that same role when he desires Bedelia’s
friendship. She’s the first character in
the show to see straight through his performance, telling him “I have
conversations with a version of you” and nailing his inhumanity with the famous
quote that leads off this essay. The way
that Hannibal claims to have friends isn’t too far removed from his usual
reserved delivery, but it carries with it a deep sadness…or, more accurately,
his yearning to feel sadness at his state, a feeling that he can only portray. Later in the episode, after his second
session with Franklin (who mentions that “being alone always comes with a
hurting, a dull ache”), he opens his office door for the first time to an empty
waiting room (Will has forgotten his appointment.) Again, the subtleties of Mikkelsen’s
performance stand out; the slight look of disappointment on his face, proof of
his inherent loneliness, is devastating.
The casting of Gillian Anderson
as Bedelia is a stroke of genius. In
many ways, she’ll always be Dana Scully, the hard pragmatist trying to rein in
Fox Mulder’s eccentric instincts on The
X-Files. But she also brings that
same sense of cool, analytical rigor to her role in Hannibal as well, her elegant, almost porcelain beauty a complement
to her ability to underplay the part.
Over two seasons, she’ll prove to be one of the most complex characters
on the show, oscillating between a slot on Hannibal’s kill list to playing the
role of his accomplice and romantic confidante.
But more on her as this season progresses…
Hannibal might be the main
performative force in this episode, but Will matches him in the depth of
performance, with an outward intensity all his own. For what is Hugh Dancy’s version of the
tortured FBI profiler but the ultimate example of a method actor lost in the
part, the logical endgame of the De Niro, Pacino, Day-Lewis era of total immersion
in another personality (which I guess makes Jack the bad stage parent?) Hannibal might have the finely tailored
person suit, but Will can hardly maintain his, even though he has the vibrant inner
humanity that Lecter so desires. But
even that’s in peril, as Will continues to fear the performance that will
finally overtake his soul, once and for all (which, this episode once again
implies in his nightmare vision, is that of homicidal father to Abigail Hobbs.)
The climactic moments of “Sorbet”
initially seem to be a bit off kilter, as the hunt for the organ harvester’s
kill truck plays as this episode’s requisite killer of the week being
shoehorned into the plot. But these
final measures are a further reinforcement of the dominant theme of performance. Hannibal saves the unnamed ambulance victim’s
life by playing his old role of surgeon, and it’s here that his true nature finally
begins to dawn on Will, the coalescing of the Chesapeake Ripper profile he’s
been forming all episode long with the reality of the man in front of him (who
has also used several of his murders to perform as the organ harvester, in an
attempt to throw suspicion off of his deeds.)
When he declines to stay for dinner, Hannibal sees through his
performance as well. In the end, our
favorite cannibal is left entirely in his element, hosting the long-requested
dinner party, serving pilfered human flesh back to his friends, reveling in the
role of the bon vivant. His introductory
words to the guests are perfectly synched with the beats of the Vivaldi piece
on the soundtrack, and in the moment it seems like he’s utterly fulfilled. But as “Sorbet” has shown, there’s a great
chasm of longing that lies beneath the veneer of this perfect performance, a
work of theatrical exactitude that is also a cage.
Leftovers ahoy! :
*Hannibal may ultimately find
romance with Bedelia, but it’s in this episode that his seduction of Alana
begins to accelerate, even as he uses her to glean information about Jack’s
motivations. Their relationship will
form one of the key dramatic barriers to Will during Season 2.
*Though classical and operatic
works feature prominently in this episode, Brian Reitzell’s score is still a
work of dark beauty. In particular, the
throbbing ambient soundscapes that he composes for Will’s sessions with
Hannibal form a low level hum of dread and paranoia.
*”Who the hell gets a spleen
transplant?” (Jimmy Price)
*”Surgery was performed, and then
unperformed.” (Beverly)
*Mark down another Bryan Fuller
homage to The Shining, as the hotel
room organ harvesting crime scene is a direct nod to Kubrick’s film (the layout
and design of the bathroom, the seating position of the victim in the tub, the
diagonal framing of the bathroom door in the distance.)
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