In
which he needs a family to escape what’s inside of him.
“Hannibal: Abigail Hobbs is dead.
Abigail: Long Live Abigail Hobbs.”
“Click,
click….boom.” (Hannibal)
It’s all been there since the
beginning. Much like the way in which
Hannibal Lecter himself managed to hide in plain sight for so long, so too has
what could be summed up as the real
main thrust of Bryan Fuller’s reinvention of the Lecterverse sat dead center in
the eye of the psychological hurricane that has engulfed the lives of the show’s
characters. Sat there as the nominative
saving grace amidst the turmoil, the unwavering light in the darkness. Hannibal’s
radical, mature take on the fluidity of sexuality might evoke the frisson that drives
Hannigram worshippers into a state of frenzy, but it’s rooted in something much
deeper: the twisted sense of familial connection that has bound these
star-crossed players together.
Season 1’s “Amuse-Bouche” (you
can read my thoughts on it here), established Fuller’s fascination with
symbiosis of all levels (personal, societal, biological, metafictional) early
on. Its tale of Eldon Stammets and his
mushroom and fungus inspired social experiments (ah, remember the days of
killers of the week and routine comic relief) served as the breeding ground for
those much larger matters of family, establishing the deep yet dysfunctional
connections that cast Jack and Hannibal as Will’s dueling father figures, Alana
as his concerned sister, and Abigail Hobbs as the surrogate child for Hannibal
and him. And throughout all of the
grotesque murder tableaus, psychological mind games, multi-layered betrayals,
and headlong dives into insanity, the yearning for familial bonds has remained
of paramount concern for all of involved.
Indeed, the show’s central dramatic force, the relationship between
Hannibal and Will, is at heart the story of two outsiders who can seemingly
only find deeper solace in each other, in the family they form to replace the
ones that were torn from them years before.
“And the Woman Clothed with the
Sun…” brings these familial matters back to the forefront in a major way. Trapped in the plastic comfort of his
cell/observation room, Hannibal is rebuked three times by members of his
family. In their first meeting since his
surrender, Will refuses to address him in anything less than formal terms,
chastising him for his haughty taunts in a nice bit of meta-commentary on the
Lecter archetype (“I expected more of you Dr. Lecter. That routine is so old hat.”) Alana, now financially set in her
relationship with Margot Verger, defends surrogate brother Will by threatening
her former lover with the indignity of removing his books; in the family
structure metaphor, it’s almost as if the daughter has turned the tables on the
abusive father, lording over him in the nursing home. And Jack, the man who for so long served as
Hannibal’s co-father figure, now only sees him as a tool with which to catch
the Tooth Fairy.
All three times, Hannibal finds
solace in his memory palace, and all three times with his surrogate daughter
Abigail. In flashbacks to the period
between the end of Seasons 1 and 2, we finally see the mechanics of her
complicity in his plot, as she assists him in faking her death, all in the name
of her spiritual rebirth into the surrogate family which he planned on
constructing with Will. As with all of
their previous scenes together, there’s an electric charge between Mads
Mikkelsen and Kacey Rohl, a tenderness that also borders on the sexual. She’s both his daughter and disciple; when
she manipulates her artificial arterial spray, her eyes dance with glee in the
aftermath. When he advises her to “Never
be ashamed of who you are, Abigail”, prodding her into slitting her father’s
corpse’s embalming fluid-spewing neck, she’s terrified but also thrilled. Of all the new additions to the Lecterverse
canon that Fuller has created, Abigail might be the most resolutely
intriguing. For a character who
essentially died at the end of Season1, she’s served as the ghost that has
haunted both Hannibal and Will, as the totemic symbol of dark, complex human
desire and frailty. As Hannibal reminds
Will in the opening scene, she’s the child the he gave to him, only for Will to
betray him to Freddie Lounds (although Will’s motivations were still hazy at
best in the events of “Mizumono.”) It’s
interesting to note the returning Freddie’s words to Will later in this
episode, when she reminds him “We’re co-conspirators, Will. I died for you and your cause.” Will might blame Hannibal for Abigail’s
ultimate fate (although he shoulders some of that himself), but both men
enlisted a younger woman to fake their own death for the furtherance of their
philosophy.
And this is why the emergence of
Francis Dolarhyde into this world of fractured families provides such an
interesting spin on things (and a possibly fitting endgame to the series as a
whole.) Thought it’s only hinted at in
this episode, Francis’s history of emotional abandonment built the foundation
for the psycho-physical transformation that he pursues so lustily. Though he might not consciously realize it,
his search for connection plays right into the desires of both Hannibal and
Will. It’s no mistake that Hannibal’s
first direct contact with Francis comes at the end of the episode, immediately
after his final flashback to his dead surrogate daughter. The prospective Red Dragon is a fitting
replacement figure for her, another damaged soul trying to come to terms with
what they perceive as their natural state of being (Hannibal even refers to him
as a “shy boy.”) Like Abigail, he also
resembles so many of Hannibal’s old borderline patients from earlier seasons, a
raw nerve ripe for manipulation. It’s a
comforting proposition for a man who has steadily been stripped of his old
support system.
But, of course, Hannibal isn’t the
only side of the psychological equation seeking a return to his old ways. Fully recruited back into the FBI’s cause,
Will now suffers once again from the psychotic visions and night sweats that he
once tried so hard to escape. In the
show’s surrogate family dynamic, he’s also beginning to see his new prey as a
kindred soul to the young woman he couldn’t save from herself. But he also holds a special affinity with
Francis as a fellow traveler along the road to madness, a hyper-sensitive man
plagued by visions seemingly beyond his control (as I detailed in last week’s
essay.) Which raises the question: how
much will Hannibal view Francis as the new Abigail, and how much will he view
him as a fitting replacement for Will?
After all, the last few interactions with his former friend/soulmate/lover
have ended in something just south of acrimony.
And a caged Hannibal, one who despite his original motivations is
beginning to see the limitations of his current state, will do anything to
return to the luxury of a life that now only exists in that memory palace.
Yet the conflict that might drive
him to recruit Francis Dolarhyde into the fold might also be one whose moral
and ethical boundaries aren’t quite as clearly defined as they might seem. In crafting the Red Dragon paintings that
would inspire Francis (and this story), William Blake established an iconic
dichotomy between the Satanic titular monster and the woman clothed with the
sun, the mother of a child who would spread the word of God. But he also intended his work to be a deeper
commentary on the necessary duality of good and evil in forming the existence
of the recognizable world. Taken in this
context, this episode offers up a series of one on one confrontations between
characters who seem to be on the opposite ends of the moral spectrum, but who
need each other for balance. Thus
Hannibal and his three visitors give each other meaning, even in this advanced
state of relational decay. Will and
Freddie return to their antagonistic ways, but still rest in a mutually
beneficial quid pro quo status. And when
Francis shares a piece of pie with blind film technician Reba, the murderer and
the innocent find a connection that goes beyond their proscribed places in
society. Such moral and ethical
ambiguity is perfectly in line with the show’s complex view of the world. It’s also perfectly in line with the God’s
eye view of the world that Hannibal holds, one in which the divine kills with
the same power that he heals. And just
as that God can seem to be an absentee deity, so too does Hannibal seem to be
disappeared from the world at large, even as he still holds power from deep
within the recesses of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane.
To the leftovers we go:
*During his nightmare vision of
himself lording over the dead body of Mrs. Leeds, Will gradually begins to see
her as an oil painting, echoing the transfigurative power of the previous
seasons’ murder tableaus (in which ordinary people achieved transcendence by
being turned into works of art by their deaths.) It also reminds us of the reversal of this
motif that Francis enacts, a man who tries to appropriate a work of art into
the living world by transforming himself into it.
*This episode marks the
long-awaited return of Lara Jean Chorostecki as Freddie Lounds. We’ve already been teased with the flaming
wheelchair death that her original male version suffered in the previous
incarnations of Red Dragon, so it’ll
be interesting to see if she still meets the ultimate fate of her predecessors.
*When Hannibal notes to Will
(during their shared vision of Francis’ murders) that blood does indeed appear
to be black in the moonlight, it’s a nice visual callback to the rivers of
black liquid that engulfed so many of the characters in some of the show’s more
surreal nightmare sequences.
*Credit to Mads Mikkelsen for
deftly portraying the subtleties of Hannibal’s evolution into a more malevolent
character. In particular, the barbs that
he throws his old friends’ way are tinged with just enough humor, compared to
his previously dry tone, that they seem like they should be followed by rim
shots on the soundtrack. When he chides
Alana for coming “to wag her finger” (to which she naughtily replies “I love a
good finger wagging”), the mild ribaldry of his response (“Yes you do”) forms
the comic highlight of the episode.
Mikkelsen’s interpretation of the character will likely never enter into
the realm of operatic villainy where Anthony Hopkins once tread, but this
episode shows how a cool psychopath caged for this many years can start to be
forced to find his entertainment in the smallest shots he can take.
*The Will/Francis montage that
occurs as they view their respective copies of the Leeds family footage (Will’s
on a tablet, Francis’ on 16mm film) reminded me of something that hasn’t been
that obvious until now: how much of an analog show Hannibal is at heart. Aside
from cell phones, the presence of digital technology is assumed, and yet pushed
into the background. So much of the
drama and plot progression stems from flesh and blood analysis and
psychological tension, people interacting with people, and not machines.
*Two weeks into the Red Dragon
story, I’ve been struck by the background windows of Francis’s workplace, and
the prominent reverse image letters on them (which work part of the center’s
Gateway title.) Then I finally
remembered one of the novel (and film’s) signature line, in which Francis tells
Freddie that “You owe me awe!” And there
it is in the background: a warped version of the awe that he will soon demand.
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