A True Crime Documentary, Horror Thriller, and Monster Movie Rolled into One

In October 2023, I decided to take a huge gamble.

I decided to watch The Silence of the Lambs.

Okay, okay. That’s not necessarily a huge gamble; I just wanted to be a bit funny. But jokes aside, I did decide to watch this film for the first time. Up to that point, I had only heard references of Anthony Hopkins’ portrayal of Hannibal Lecter in other films, seen clips of him out of context, and had watched the spectacular Hannibal series that aired on NBC (which starred Mads Mikkelsen, whose portrayal was unsettling).

While watching the film, I couldn’t help but to be enthralled. The film was slow and methodical in tone, telling the story of a young FBI trainee named Clarice Starling, who was tasked with hunting down serial killer Buffalo Bill (AKA Jame Gumb). In her hunt, she was forced to engage with the titular Lecter, who not only gave her the tools needed to look for Bill, but also successfully managed to uncover the true intent about why she is the way she is.

What made The Silence of the Lambs so fascinating to me was the fact that it didn’t feel like I was watching a film. In some ways–particularly in how its shot by its cinematographer, Takashi Fujimoto–the film feels like a true crime documentary with elements of a horror thriller and a monster movie thrown in there. (I definitely would like to emphasize that last bit later on in this article because…the second half of Silence delivers on that.)

The following year–as some would label as last year–I rewatched the film, but this time accompanied by its 2001 sequel, Hannibal, and its 2002 prequel Red Dragon. (In short, I still felt The Silence of the Lambs was a masterpiece, Hannibal was simply alright, and Red Dragon was pretty good.) It was then that I decided to make rewatch Silence every October as a Halloween tradition.

So, to keep with said tradition, I rewatched the film a couple of weeks ago, and–shocker–I still enjoyed it.

(Brief aside before I continue, though: earlier this year, I watched the prequel film Hannibal Rising starring the late Gaspard Ulliel to round out the Anthony Hopkins-era Lecter films. I thought it was the weakest of the bunch, with Ulliel’s performance being a stand-out, but the film itself feeling like nothing more than a generic cash-grab.)

Clarice is portrayed by Jodie Foster (who would unfortunately / fortunately not return for the sequel, in which she was replaced by Julianne Moore. This was unfortunate as Foster embodied the character so beautifully, but fortunate as Clarice’s characterization in Hannibal ain’t all that, and Moore’s performance suffered because of it.)

But I digress. Foster’s performance as Clarice in The Silence of the Lambs imbues the character with a stalwart resilience and intelligence that makes her a strong protagonist. These traits do her well because the film greatly emphasizes an ever-present reality: she is a woman in a man’s world. It’s difficult to not notice this aspect of the film as there are many instances where men–whether it be the slimy Dr. Frederick Chilton (Anthony Heald) or even Clarice’s friend Pilcher (Paul Lazar)–make these weird passes at her and/or simply stare at her. These moments are all incredibly uncomfortable, and it shows that many of these characters don’t view Clarice as someone to respect but either a prize to chase or someone beneath them. Now, an interesting–and slight–diversion from this phenomenon is Clarice’s mentor, Jack Crawford (Scott Glenn). While Jack doesn’t make passes or stare unnaturally long at his protégé, there are moments that reveal that he doesn’t necessarily respect her as an equal. (The scene where Jack thanks Clarice for helping to locate Buffalo Bill only to hang up on her while she’s responding to him immediately comes to mind.)

That leads me to her relationship with Hannibal Lecter. I genuinely forgot where I read it from (whether it be an article on the Internet or a social media thread), but someone discussed how all of the male figures in Clarice’s life don’t respect her–hence my discussion earlier–except for Lecter. During all of their interactions (save for their first meeting), the imprisoned former psychiatrist doesn’t divert his attention away from Clarice and instead has conversations with her in order to discover the true identity and motivations of Buffalo Bill. It is in these moments that we see Clarice at her most vulnerable, ultimately culminating in the heart-wrenching and powerful reveal of why the film is titled The Silence of the Lambs.

On the other side of the coin is Lecter himself.

What more can I say about Anthony Hopkins’ performance in this that hasn’t been said already? He’s captivating, creepy, electrifying, scene-stealing, insert positive adjective here, insert positive adjective here. The fact that he only has sixteen minutes of screentime and manages to leave such an impression is a testament to Hopkins’ prowess as an actor.

I guess if I were to focus on a specific aspect of Lecter, it’s his monstrous yet seemingly unassuming nature. Before we meet him, we see Clarice arrive at the psychiatric hospital where he’s kept, and Dr. Chilton leads her to his cell. As he does, he describes a horrific act Lecter did years earlier to an unsuspecting nurse. This act is not shown to the audience, but the details that Chilton gives paint a clear and disturbing picture of what he can do. You’d assume that Lecter is a large, hulking man, frothing at the mouth with an unmistakingly sinister presence to him, wouldn’t you? The film sure does, because as Clarice walks to Lecter’s cell, she passes other inmates who are clearly dangerous and psychotic. However, when she reaches Lecter, he’s….not. He looks like a normal man. Good posture, eyes wide open, hair slicked back, and even well mannered (he says “good morning” to Clarice when he sees her).

But even then, there’s still something clearly off about Lecter–and knowing the information that Chilton gave both Clarice and the viewer– he’s definitely not someone meant to be underestimated. The frightening thing about that is that we actually get to see the doctor’s, um, “brilliant work” in action later on in the film when he unleashes himself on two unsuspecting guards.

Needless to say, the poor bastards didn’t stand a chance.

The final piece of discussion that I have is Jame Gumb / Buffalo Bill, the film’s most controversial inclusion.

Gumb is portrayed by Ted Levine, who genuinely offers his own flavor of menace to the character. His introductory scene is chilling, where he feigns help with moving a couch only to kidnap a well-meaning young woman. What he’s truly capable of is shown not long afterwards, as Clarice and Jack take part in an autopsy that illustrates the horrors that he inflicts on his victims.

However, I’m not going to focus on that aspect of Gumb’s character. Instead, I’d rather discuss how the film portrays his struggles with his gender identity. Now, it’s important to note that both the film and the original source material are from a much different time (the film being from 1991 and the novel being from 1988), so the exploration of gender and sexuality is told from an antiquated–and depending on who you discuss this film with–regressive point of view.

This point of view primarily comes from a scene in which Lecter describes Gumb as possibly having a childhood rife with abuse, which resulted in his “mistaken belief” in being transgender and his subsequent descent into depravity. As you could probably tell, the implication that Bill’s gender identity struggles came about as a result of violence and led him into killing innocent people didn’t exactly land well with those in the queer community at the time. While I am not a part of that community, I completely understand why Gumb’s characterization was–and still is— scrutinized. It is important to acknowledge that the film does use harmful tropes of an already greatly marginalized community, and while strides have been made in better, more impactful trans representation in the media, we still have a long way to go.