35 years ago, Jonathan Demme’s serial killer thriller, The Silence of the Lambs, turned the film industry on its head. While it’s not like Demme’s multi-Oscar winner (including Best Picture, Best Director, Best Actress, and Best Adapted Screenplay) was the first serial killer film, it upped the ante to such a degree that movies centered around serial killers moved beyond their genre.
Of course, there are a few notable precursors: Fritz Lang’s M (1931), The Boston Strangler (1968), Hitchcock’s 1-2 punch of Psycho (1960) and Frenzy (1972). Just five years before The Silence of the Lambs, Michael Mann’s brilliant chiller/thriller Manhunter brought the first treatment of Hannibal Lecter (played by Brian Cox) to the screen. Manhunter was largely forgotten at the time of its release due to poor studio handling, and a producer (the infamous Dino DeLaurentiis) who hated the film and gave the picture a generic name that didn’t play into the ready-made audience of Thomas Harris’ best-selling book that the film was based on, Red Dragon.
With the exception of Manhunter, all the other films listed above were financial and critical successes upon release (Manhunter has gained restorative reevaluations since the modest critiques it received in 1986). But only Psycho received any Oscar nominations, with all of four nods from the Academy (Best Director, Janet Leigh (Best Supporting Actress), Best Cinematography, and Best Art Direction). Remarkably, Anthony Perkins’ stunning performance as Norman Bates did not make its way onto the Academy’s final five for Best Actor.
When Orion released The Silence of the Lambs on February 14, 1991, the studio was certainly hoping for a hit, but while releases in February can turn the turnstiles, movies released that early in the year are not positioning themselves for awards consideration. Before The Silence of the Lambs, only two horror films in the history of the Oscars had been nominated for Best Picture: William Friedkin’s The Exorcist (1973) and Steven Spielberg’s Jaws (1975).
The cultural phenomenon of both of those films bent the Academy’s will. The Silence of the Lambs, with its rave reviews and iconic turn by Anthony Hopkins as Hannibal “The Cannibal,” checked those same boxes: critics and moviegoers received the film in a similar fashion. Both groups thought the film to be genuinely great. 35 years later, despite legitimate concerns regarding the film’s second serial killer (Jame Gumb) and the portrayal of his sexual identity, the film’s initial reception has held up. The Silence of the Lambs is a truly great film.
When a film like The Silence of the Lambs connects commercially and critically, its influence is likely to expand far past its own success. Of the eight horror films in the history of cinema that have been nominated for Best Picture, five (The Sixth Sense, Black Swan, Get Out, The Substance, and Sinners) made the Academy roll call after the release of The Silence of the Lambs. Only one horror film can lay claim to having won the coveted prize of Best Picture: The Silence of the Lambs.
The success of the film effectively supercharged the concept of horror as a prestige genre and greatly expanded (for better and worse) the genre within the genre: the serial-killer film. Serial killer movies had primarily existed in the realm of low-budget slasher films. While some, notably The Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974), Halloween (1978), Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer (1986), and The Stepfather (1987), found a measure of acclaim and strong cult followings, most films in the genre fell into cheap, low-brow repetition (Friday the 13th, and every Halloween film after the first one).
Moreover, in recent years, the serial-killer film/documentary/series has been everywhere. For every genuinely imaginative take on the genre (David Fincher’s Se7en and Zodiac), there are ten “let’s make an easy buck, and not force the audience to think” assembly line entries to the genre.
While The Silence of the Lambs may not be the best film in its genre (those who prefer Psycho, Se7en, or Zodiac have reasonable arguments), Silence is inarguably the most important. The door was no longer slightly ajar for major studios to commit large sums of money to secure name casts and directors; it was torn from its hinges. I’d venture to say that one of the easiest types of movies to get greenlit in modern times is the serial killer film.
Depending on your outlook on the genre, you can either thank The Silence of the Lambs or rail against its existence. But I’d venture to say that even those who despise the genre would have a difficult time thinking the film wasn’t well-made.
When The Silence of the Lambs went into pre-production, Orion had secured Jonathan Demme to direct. To most, Demme might seem like an odd choice. Demme had never made a horror movie, let alone a serial killer film. The director was best known for off-kilter fare like Melvin & Howard, Stop Making Sense, and Something Wild. His previous film before helming The Silence of the Lambs was a screwball mobster comedy (Married to the Mob) starring Michelle Pfeiffer and Matthew Modine. Demme, a deeply liberal and humanist filmmaker, had reservations about signing on to the film, but he recognized the intelligence of the Harris novel and Ted Tally’s adapted screenplay.
Casting Lecter proved to be difficult. In hindsight, Anthony Hopkins looks like an obvious choice, but he wasn’t even in the top five. Demme’s first choice was Sean Connery. Connery passed due to the film’s dark nature. Gene Hackman rejected the offer for the same reason. Robert DeNiro, Al Pacino, Dustin Hoffman, and Daniel Day-Lewis would turn down the role, as well. Demme finally turned to Hopkins because of his stage work and his appreciation for Hopkins’s performance in David Lynch’s The Elephant Man. After reading just ten pages of the script, Hopkins signed on to play what has become his most memorable role: Hannibal “the cannibal” Lecter.
It’s worth noting the state of Hopkins’ career before The Silence of the Lambs. Hopkins was 54 when the film was released. He had not yet scored a single Oscar nomination (he now has six, including two wins) in his career, and his resume up to that point was largely mediocre, save for a handful of notable films. Hopkins followed in the line of such famous British actors as Richard Burton, Peter O’Toole, and Richard Harris—men with great talent who often undermined their careers by lifting too many pints to their mouths. Now, so highly esteemed to be considered a legend, it’s easy to forget that Hopkins was in no way a significant draw to audiences. Of course, that would soon change.
To play the role of Clarice Starling, Demme turned to his Married to the Mob lead, Michelle Pfeiffer. Much like Sean Connery and Gene Hackman, Pfeiffer turned down the part due to its grim material. Jodie Foster, hot off having won an Oscar for Best Actress in The Accused (1988), lobbied hard for the role. Demme was initially reluctant to cast Foster, thinking her to be “too California.” Foster so loved the book and the part of Clarice that her tenacity eventually won Demme over, and with that, he had his two main stars.
The performances of Hopkins and Foster are a case study in opposing styles that somehow mesh perfectly. For all of Hopkins’ creepy stillness, there is a florid theatricality that he brings to Lecter. The way he enunciates (take note of how hard he lands on the ‘k’ when he says, “This man you seek”), his hand gestures, and then those moments when he pushes Lecter to the brink of cartoonishness (“fava beans and a nice Chianti”) but never quite goes over the top.
In the case of Foster, she plays Clarice as a dogged overachiever. A woman just on the brink of graduating from FBI training and earning her badge. She’s bright, but inexperienced, and has nowhere near the confidence of her adversary in a match of “quid pro quo” wits.
Born in West Virginia, Starling is haunted by the tragic death of her night watchman father, and her time living with another family that slaughtered lambs. The sound of the crying lambs lives in Starling’s head. As does the feeling of being helpless to save even one. Lecter recognizes that Starling is attempting to reinvent herself. He takes note of her nice bag and cheap shoes, and most significantly, her trace of a West Virginia accent that she’s worked hard to remove. At some point in their lives, both Lecter and Starling made a conscious choice to become something else. It’s just that Lecter is much further down the road than Starling, and his chosen path is without light. Despite where they are in their lives, they prove to be worthy adversaries. Lecter, as much as he’s capable, has something close to affection for her. Hopkins and Foster took to their roles as if they were born to play them.
One of the most undersold values of The Silence of the Lambs is its feminism. It’s easy to miss when you get locked into the film’s perfect pacing, outstanding performances, and grisly storyline, but it is definitely there. You can see it in the almost dismissive way Jack Crawford (Scott Glenn), the head of the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit, regards her. Crawford recognizes Starling’s talent, but his decision to put Clarice in front of Lecter’s cage in the hopes of gaining intel that will assist in helping the FBI capture another serial killer, dubbed “Buffalo Bill”/Jame Gumb for his penchant for skinning his victims, is a bit of a “Hail Mary.” The bureau’s best efforts have gone wanting, and something tells Crawford that casting an attractive young woman into Lecter’s gaze might just yield something useful. Crawford doesn’t even refer to Starling’s directive as an investigation, but as “more of an errand.” Starling is bait, and Crawford hopes that Lecter will take it.
Aside from a classmate played by Kasi Lemmons, Starling is seldom seen with another woman as the case progresses. She is living in the world of men. Demme emphasizes this point by placing the diminutive Starling (Foster stands just five-foot-three inches tall) on an elevator surrounded by hulking male agents. She is tiny, isolated, and when you look into Starling’s eyes, you can see that those facts are not lost on her. She is scared. Scared to live in this world that was not created for her.
Demme’s feminism comes through at other points in the film as well. Such as when a group of male FBI students checks out Clarice as she jogs by. And then there’s the warden of the prison that contains Lecter, the grotesque Dr. Chilton (Anthony Heald), who lasciviously offers Foster the opportunity to be “shown around town.” It’s a strange thought to have, but outside of the possible exception of Barney (the prison orderly played by Frankie Faison), the only man who truly respects Starling is a cannibalistic serial killer.
The film’s feminist streak doesn’t stop with Starling. “Buffalo Bill’s” next intended victim is a woman named Catherine Martin (Brooke Smith, in the film’s most underrated performance). Martin is first shown as a spirited young lady driving home and singing along to Tom Petty’s American Girl, at the top of her lungs. In what might seem like a minor moment, Demme establishes Martin as a character of strength, just through her enthusiasm for Petty’s classic tune. Later, when she’s captured, Martin does more than just beg for her release; she ingeniously tries to engineer it. Demme sees Martin as a full-fledged human being, not just the latest number in Bill’s body count.
Where the film gets into dicier territory is with the depiction of “Buffalo Bill”/Jame Gumb. The character of Gumb is based on a combination of infamous killers, including Ed Gein and Ted Bundy, with Gein being the most prominent touchpoint. Gumb is presented as a psychotic suffering from Antisocial Personality Disorder, who has been refused gender reassignment surgery due to the state of his mental health. The film takes great pains to state that Gumb does not qualify as ‘Trans’ due to his psychopathy.
However true this may be, it’s more than understandable that many see the character, and the film, as transphobic. One of the film’s most disturbing scenes showcases Gumb wearing the skin of one of his victims while dancing to the haunting Goodbye Horses (by Q. Lazzarus). Towards the end of the sequence, Gumb tucks his penis and testicles behind his legs, as if to see himself as the woman he would like to be. Understandably, those inside and outside of the Trans community would take offense, even if the medical science is on the film’s side. For what it’s worth, both Demme and Ted Levine (the actor who played Gumb) went on to apologize for the perceived insensitivity of their efforts.
Even so, the film’s esteem has held up extremely well 35 years on. Despite the rational reservations some have voiced. I think that’s largely because, as a film, it’s just so damn good. There is not a wasted second among the film’s 118 minutes. Foster, Hopkins, Levine, and Smith all give what can be reasonably considered to be the performances of their lives. The subject matter may be abhorrent, but the film is serious and even artful in its approach to its subject matter. Artful not just in its filmmaking precision, but also in its sincere focus on serial killer profiling, and again, most significantly, its feminism.
The Silence of the Lambs went on to garner seven Oscar nominations, winning five. The film won Best Picture, Best Director (Demme), Best Adapted Screenplay (Ted Tally), Best Actress (Foster), and Best Actor (Hopkins).
While I’m on the subject of feminism, I think it’s worthwhile to note that while few have argued that Hopkins or Foster didn’t deserve their statues, there is a sizable difference in the amount of weight the two carried in the film. Foster is on screen for 56 minutes in the film, while Hopkins is seen for just 16 minutes. Hopkins’ screen time is much closer to Ted Levine’s 10 1/2 minutes than it is to Foster’s.
The Silence of the Lambs is Jodie Foster’s and Clarice Starling’s movie. There is no other lead in the film. Everyone else, including Hopkins, is in support. One can be forgiven for not batting an eye at Hopkins winning the Oscar in the leading actor category, his presence so keenly felt even when he’s not on screen. But do note that the woman in the film who took home the commensurate prize had to work nearly four times as hard as her male counterpart to earn it.
Reel Reframe 