Max cringed.
"He'll have to be judged by a court of his peers,” Sir Edward went on, “which will give the nobility something to do and the newspapers ample scandal to draw moral lessons from for weeks to come."
"The newspapers will miss the real moral lesson,” Max said. “One should never make an afternoon call unless properly attired, and that includes both hat and gloves. If the duke had worn gloves when he called on Letty Tapping, he could have concealed the damage to his hands inconspicuously, I wouldn't have drawn him with bandaged hands, and he might have escaped the law altogether. When a nobleman dresses with such poor taste, we shouldn't be surprised that he is also capable of murder."
Copyright (c) 2007 Lloyd Biggle, Jr.
* * * *
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REEL CRIME by STEVE HOCKENSMITH
Peter Webber once wrote an autobiographical essay in which he admitted that he lives in the grip of a compulsion—"a sickness,” he called it. It first came over him when he was fifteen years old, and it's lost none of its irresistible power decades later.
Fortunately, Webber's “sickness” is actually pretty benign: He became obsessed with being a filmmaker after stumbling into an art-house movie theater in London as a youth. As fixations go, he could've done a lot worse. Dreaming of being a director might be a bit masochistic, given how difficult it is to get a film made, but it's not going to land you in an asylum with a leather muzzle strapped to your face.
* * * *
Gaspard Ulliel (left) and Hannibal Rising director Peter Webber. Photo by Keith Hampshere, courtesy of The Weinstein Company
* * * *
Eating people, on the other hand—now that'll get you in trouble.
And make you famous. Just ask the hero/villain of Webber's new movie, the Silence of the Lambs prequel Hannibal Rising. Given that the film charts the early years of the sickest puppy in the cinema kennel—Hannibal “The Cannibal"—it's entirely appropriate that the director should think of himself as barking mad.
Certainly, some of Webber's peers must think he's nuts. After all, who'd want to follow in the formidable footsteps of directors Michael Mann (who brought Lecter to life onscreen first in 1986's Manhunter), Jonathan Demme (who won an Oscar for The Silence of the Lambs), and Ridley Scott (whose resumé includes Alien, Blade Runner, and Gladiator, as well as the 2001 Lambs sequel Hannibal)?
(No, I'm not forgetting about Brett Ratner, who directed the 2002 Manhunter retread Red Dragon. It's just that no one worries about being compared to him unfavorably.)
"Any film is intimidating before you start work on it, large or small,” Webber says, shrugging off questions about Hannibal Lecter's popular screening outings in years past. “It's a step into the unknown."
Well, not totally unknown, at least in terms of the story. Bits and pieces of Lecter's history have been parceled out in previous books and movies. But with Hannibal Rising, the backstory steps into the spotlight.
The film takes place in the 1940s and ‘50s, when Lecter was still a young man. After seeing his family nearly wiped out in World War II, the traumatized boy ends up in a hellish Iron Curtain orphanage. He eventually escapes and makes his way to Paris, where he's taken in by his glamorous aunt (by marriage, apparently—named “Lady Murasaki,” she's played by Chinese star Li Gong).
Under his aunt's tutelage, young Lecter reveals himself to have a brilliant medical mind, and soon he's the youngest med student since Doogie Howser. He also lands an internship at the local morgue and helps a determined police inspector (The Wire's Dominic West) on the trail of a passel of war criminals. After a brutal attack on Lady Murasaki, Lecter seeks revenge, discovering in the process that he has other latent talents—ones involving sharp objects and the cooking of decidedly non-kosher cuisine. By the end of the film, the bad guys are (literally) dead meat ... and the baddest guy of them all has left for a new start in America.
The film itself represents another new start for Lecter: For the first time since 1986, the character won't be played by Anthony Hopkins. (Brian Cox made for a very different—though almost as creepy—Hannibal the Cannibal in Manhunter.) Makeup tricks and CGI can create some amazing illusions, but even the most skilled FX maestro would have a tough time turning Sir Tony into a convincing teenager. So when Webber took over the project way back in 2005, the hunt was immediately on for a new Cannibal.
* * * *
Reds menace young Hannibal Lecter in post-war Europe. Photo by Keith Hampshere, courtesy of The Weinstein Company
* * * *
And the hunt went on.
And on.
And on.
"I have lost count of the number of actors we auditioned,” Webber says.
Eventually, however, Webber's persistence (or was it obsessiveness?) paid off ... or so he hopes. Twenty-two-year-old Frenchman Gaspard Ulliel (best known stateside for costarring in the critical fave A Very Long Engagement) was cast as the young Lecter. Although Ulliel doesn't look much like Hopkins, young or old, Webber remains confident he found the right actor for the part.
* * * *
Gaspard Ulliel tries to get a handle on an infamous character. Photo by Keith Hampshere, courtesy of The Weinstein Company
* * * *
"[Ulliel's got] looks, talent, attitude, ability,” Webber says. “When you see the movie, you will know why [he won the role]."
Maybe. Maybe not. Hopkins's portrayal of the suave serial killer will cast a long shadow. And despite Internet rumors that he'd recorded voiceover narration for the film, Hopkins had no involvement with the project whatsoever.
Yet while Lecter's old familiar face (and voice) are gone, the same evil mind lurks behind the scenes: The screenplay for Hannibal Rising was adapted from Thomas Harris's recent novel of the same name ... by Harris himself.
Though every one of his five novels has been brought to the screen (starting with Black Sunday in 1977), Harris himself has always distanced himself from Hollywood. In fact, the reclusive writer distances himself from just about everything. Although he started his career as a journalist, he refuses to be interviewed by them now, and little is known about him except that he has homes in Miami and Sag Harbor, New York, and that he's filthy rich.
Webber sidesteps questions about Harris, though the two presumably worked together closely to polish the script—Harris's first produced screenplay. Webber acknowledges that the writer wasn't on hand for any of the film's shooting because “Prague is a long way from Miami.” (Hannibal Rising was filmed in the Czech Republic.) But beyond that, he's staying mum.
"Thomas is a famous recluse, a mystery wrapped in an enigma by a puzzle, and I really don't want to say anything about working with him,” Webber says. “He might set one of his underworld contacts on me. It's not a risk worth taking."
* * * *
Anthony Hopkins as the original “Hannibal the Cannibal"
* * * *
Webber can be equally coy about himself, as it turns out. When asked his age, he demurs with: “In the words of Neil Young, ‘Old enough to repaint but young enough to sell.’”
Here's what is known about the director's past. He was born in the south of England but grew up in West London (where he still lives today). He caught the movie bug in the aforementioned repertory theater, the Electric Cinema, where as a young man he fell under the sway of European art-house directors such as Jean-Luc Goddard and Max Ophuls (though he also acknowledges a debt to a more mainstream entertainer—Alfred Hitchcock). He began his career as an editor but eventually started calling the shots as a director of documentaries for English television. That segued into gigs directing TV dramas and—at last—his first feature film: Girl with a Pearl Earring, the 2003 adaptation of Tracy Chevalier's novel about the creation of a classic painting.
Given Webber's arty leanings, it makes sense when he says people have described Hannibal Rising as “Ingm
ar Bergman meets Wes Craven.” Certainly, the director isn't simply interested in scaring the bejesus out of his audience (though he tries to do that too). What attracted him to the project, he says, was the chance to explore how an exceptionally brilliant young man could become an exceptionally vicious killer.
"Hannibal combines all that is great and good about humanity—civilized, cultured, refined man—with all that is bad—a malign bloodlust and savagery,” he says. “He is both the best and worst of us. [Through him] we are able to peer into the savage interior of our own souls."
The savage interior of our souls?
Hey, maybe this guy is sick...
Copyright (c) 2007 Steve Hockensmith
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NOT YOUR EVERYDAY POISON by JOHN H. DIRCKX
The first Saturday of June dawned bright and breezy. At seven A.M., barricades erected by workers from the Bureau of Streets converted the four blocks of DeWire Street that ran through the middle of downtown into a pedestrian mall. By eight o'clock the entire area was a seething riot of movement, color, and noise. In sidewalk booths along both sides of the street, more than a hundred dealers offered antiques, craft items, and unmitigated rubbish as The Largest Flea Market in the Universe began its fourth season.
Some of the vendors had set up elaborate pavilions where one could buy authentic antiques such as candlestick telephones, glass insulators, and all-steel roller skates in mint condition. Others had merely parked pickup trucks or four-wheeled trailers at the curb and not even bothered to unload their cargo of miscellaneous pieces of broken furniture and cardboard boxes full of mildewed books and rusty tools. Food stands interspersed among the vendors’ booths filled the air with the pungent tang of fried onions and the heavy reek of warmed-over pizza. A dozen boomboxes simultaneously blared forth a dozen brands of crash ‘n’ squawk.
The City Council had originally approved the flea market because its backers promised that it would bring suburbanites and their credit cards flooding into the city on weekends. Like many projects driven by greed and administered by committees, it had backfired. The barricades snarled traffic for blocks around. Funeral processions starting from downtown churches were forced to make elaborate detours, and drivers of ambulances and fire engines had to radio ahead for clearance. Wildcat vendors who weren't registered with the program set up in parking lots on the periphery of the flea market zone. Thieves wandered brazenly through the area and walked off with whatever they could snatch from the ill-guarded tables. And by the time the flea market closed down at six P.M., the whole district looked like the aftermath of a circus hit by a hurricane.
But because it did indeed boost the revenues of downtown businesses on Saturdays, The Largest Flea Market in the Universe had been approved for another year.
J. Brownell Behr plodded briskly along the row of booths, his eye darting back and forth over the merchandise displayed, now fixing momentarily on something of interest, now leaping incuriously over a mound of obvious trash. When his cell phone rang, he whipped it to his ear without breaking his stride.
"Yes?"
"Hello,” said a woman's voice. “Is this Mr.... Behr?"
"This is Dr. Behr. Were you calling about a patient?"
"No, sir. You don't know me. But I happen to be in a position to do you a favor."
"Oh? How's that?"
"I think you were just looking at a Buhl taboret in Hervey Dorjack's booth?"
Behr stood still and glanced swiftly around him to see if he could spot the caller, who must be within a few hundred feet. “That's right, I was."
"Well, I was in there too—actually standing outside looking at the lamps. After you gave Dorjack your name and cell phone number and left the booth, I heard him telling his helper that he had to leave for a while, but that if you came back he could come down as far as eight hundred on the price."
"Eight hundred! That's not even half of what he's got it marked."
"I know, but it's only about a tenth of what it's worth. It's genuine Buhl, you know. I'd grab it myself, but I'm a little short this week. Tell you what. If you get it for eight hundred, how about letting me have about a hundred of the difference?"
Dr. Behr rang off abruptly and headed for Dorjack's booth at a jog trot.
A little after eleven that morning, Loretta Burleigh left her stand unattended and drifted across the street to Hervey Dorjack's. As usual, the furniture dealer had rented two spaces, one for his twenty-four-foot van and one for the white canvas shelter under which most of his better pieces were displayed.
"I saw him come back,” she said. “Did he buy it for eight hundred?"
Dorjack looked up from his lunch of steakburger, fries, and cole slaw. “He did. In fact, Billy's delivering it to his place out on Mallard Marsh Drive right now in the pickup."
"When do I get my five percent?"
"As soon as his check clears."
"It'll clear. J. Brownell Behr is the biggest pediatric dentist in town."
Mild alarm showed on Dorjack's horsy features. “You know this guy?"
"No, but he said he was Doctor Behr, so I looked him up in the phone book. I don't figure his check is going to bounce if he can afford a full page ad in the Yellow Pages."
"Hmph. If."
"So where's your main competitor today?"
"Dane?” Dorjack ran his eye up and down both sides of the street, now a teeming pedestrian mall. “He's not here, is he?"
"I just hope he's not off on another jag. The poor guy is killing himself."
"I thought he was in recovery."
"He's in recovery like I'm in the Girl Scouts."
Dorjack took a moment to ponder the aptness of that comparison. “He never does himself any good selling out here, anyway,” he remarked. “He always thinks he has to point out every little scratch and flaw in a piece before the sale is final. He could make a lot more doing restoration work for me if he'd ever stay sober long enough to finish a job."
Loretta looked across the street to the modest stand, open to the bright sky, where she purveyed herbal teas and natural remedies. “Gotta go,” she said. “Another sucker on the hook."
* * * *
At ten o'clock next morning, Detective Sergeant Cyrus Auburn was enjoying his third glazed doughnut and his second cup of coffee while lazily making his way through the Sunday papers and listening with half an ear to a CD of Duke Ellington favorites, when the phone rang.
"You been to church yet, Cy?” asked his immediate superior, Lieutenant Savage, who had weekend duty.
Auburn yawned and looked at the clock. “No, and something tells me I'm not going to make it now."
"Our friend Stamaty at the coroner's office has a fatal poisoning that he says looks like it might turn out to be a homicide. He's kindly invited the Department of Public Safety to be in on the preliminary investigation."
"He's always so polite, isn't he? Asked for me by name, too, I bet. Is he at his office or at the scene?"
"Office, but only for another few minutes."
"Anything you want to tell me about the victim?"
"We already gave Stamaty everything we have. If I stop to give it to you, too, I'll be late for church."
Auburn's phone call caught Stamaty before he left his office at the courthouse, but they decided to meet near the scene, which was north of downtown, since Auburn lived west and it would take him a few minutes to shave, shower, and dress. It was ten forty when Auburn pulled into the driveway of Dane Sackler's place off Huckleberry Trail.
The house was stone, very old, not very big. It might have been a farmhouse at one time, but none of the surrounding land had been under cultivation for at least a couple of generations. The woods had pretty completely reclaimed the territory and grew right up to the house on three sides. A large outbuilding, also deeply embowered by woods, evidently housed some kind of workshop. An old pickup truck was parked in the driveway between the buildings, pointing outward, with its tailgate almost touching the overhead
door of the shed.
Stamaty's van was parked behind the truck, and he was standing next to it, watching the squirrels and listening to the birds.
"Are you sure we're inside the city limits here?” asked Auburn. “I kept thinking pretty soon somebody was going to stop me and ask to see my passport."
"According to the map,” Stamaty assured him, “the corporation line runs along Seneca Mills Road.” He reached into the van and pulled out a clipboard but recited the information without looking at it. “Dane Sackler, age forty-four, never married, professional carpenter and cabinetmaker, mostly self-employed during the past ten years. Sold new and restored furniture at antique shows and flea markets around the area. Didn't show up for one yesterday. His girlfriend couldn't get him to answer his phone so she came out here to his place to check on him. Found his truck in the driveway, workshop door unlocked, house locked, no answer when she knocked. She called Public Safety—"
"Didn't she have a key?"
Stamaty looked at him over the tops of his bifocals. “I asked her that, and she said she didn't know him that well. Your guys came and checked it out, beat the bushes for a while, finally decided to break in, and found him dead on the bathroom floor."
"And this was when?"
"Five thirty yesterday afternoon. He was fully dressed and there wasn't any sign of violence or any indication of an intruder. The girlfriend—her name's Loretta Burleigh—told them the only medical trouble she knew he had was a drinking problem, so they called the coroner's hotline. I got here about six thirty, took my pictures and drew my map, interviewed the cops and the girlfriend, and had the mortuary crew remove the body."
AHMM, April 2007 Page 7