Manhunter and Man-eater. Review on Red Dragon Movie

On the surface, and to most viewers, Red Dragon will either be passed as disturbingly thrilling or as another monthly manifestation of the Hollywood-remake-happy avarice. On another level the film is all about surprise and the contravening of expectations.

The actual film and its content isn’t a surprise so much, though it does have a vigorously violent edge about it, as it is the history and elements of force behind it. The über-hack-who-couldn’t-get-too-tactless-or-shameless director called Brett Ratner is the most unusual and compelling force associated with the project, aside from the project itself. Here’s, what would seem, a primarily talent less and rich Miamian who seems to have taken up directing to burden the tasks of critics and contribute to the bloated avarice, with generally-deadening mainstream schlock such as Money Talks, The Family Man and the series of Rush Hour movies (which all have their moments, but...) The initial conflict of Red Dragon lies within the hiring of Ratner for a job most suitable for the virtuosity of David Fincher. The surprise is (if you haven’t guessed by now) that in Red Dragon’s flight of light-glory Ratner nearly redeems himself, almost. Reading Thomas Harris’ Red Dragon some years ago, I can recall thinking about how it would make an exceptional film adaptation, only to discover it had been in Michael Mann’s amazing 1986 adaptation, Manhunter. Learning of the remake I was quite ecstatic (though less than excited over Ratner in the director’s chair) especially in that I felt Manhunter was lacking a little potency, perhaps it was that Tom Noonan’s portrayal of serial killer Francis Dolarhyde had been a bit less than satisfactory. One of the most crucial and captivating elements of the original story had been Dolarhyde, his icy allure and his heart-wrenching relationship with the sweet blind girl, Reba McLane, with whom he finds his temporary human affinity.

With a fantastic casting call Ratner just may have captured what had been envisioned for the tortured Dolarhyde but then again, less than satisfactory is man-hunter Will Graham’s portrait. In the end, it appears that the two adaptations might even each other out. Red Dragon does have aural and visual distinction despite the fortunate absence of Ratner’s longtime companion, Chris Tucker. Essentially an extraction of Jonathan Demme’s method, this may be well received for its determined compliance to the unwritten rules regarding the Harris-Hannibal atmosphere, which were inadvertently set by Demme with The Silence of the Lambs, then completely ignored by Ridley Scott with his Hannibal. Ratner (temporarily no doubt) adopts subtlety and solemn stability of facial expressions and framing to unleash surprisingly tense monologues of hostility and psychological derangement.

A detachment from reality so contemplated and self-contained in schizophrenia that it suggests a Norman Bates with a shotgun as a most diabolical threat. And along the lines of The Silence of the Lambs, and as it should be, Hannibal the Cannibal is left to merely adorn its helter-skelter walls and offer up loquacious probing and observations. However, we’re treated to a fine retracing of Dr. Lecter’s (Anthony Hopkins) capture in Red Dragon’s opening scenes, which follow the doctor’s eyeing of a musician at an opulent music hall, whom he later has for dinner at a friendly engagement. He’s paid a visit by FBI agent Will Graham (Edward Norton, more at home in vicious roles himself, rather than cop heroes) who asks for the doctor’s help when he’s unknowingly investigating this very man’s cannibalistic crimes. Graham soon realizes the situation and the two end up with similarly placed wounds of the abdomen, along with Lecter being sent to prison. Graham takes early semi-retirement to Marathon, Florida to mend disheveled boats on the beach with his wife (a thankless Mary-Louise Parker) and young son. Graham is paid a visit by FBI Chief Jack Crawford (unfortunately, a completely forgettable Harvey Keitel) and asked to use his remarkable investigatory skills on a recent, disturbing serial killer search.

The killer, and I’m not giving away any spoilers, turns out to be shy and palate-scarred Francis Dolarhyde (a phenomenally thundering yet shattering Ralph Fiennes) whose enigmatic nature attracts delicate, blind co-worker Reba McClane (an angelic Emily Watson.) Though it may not be much more than a continuance of the aforementioned vapid avarice that is so heatedly loathed, Red Dragon stands its ground as a very worthy addition to the (I hesitate to say) Hannibal Lecter omnibus. Its terrifically grandiose and gloomy ambience finds solace in a nicely orchestrated (if fairly conventional, considering the talent) score by Danny Elfman, though the soundtrack finds its protrusions a bit too intrusive on a few scenes. A slick and rather peculiar self-assurance aids the film’s exposition with Ratner at his most restrained and proper behavior. However, an inability to flourish and expound upon a majestic sense of architecture by oversimplifying its locales with [expertly done but minimal] facial framing, proposes a lack of imagination; and though it firmly sticks to The Silence of the Lambs’ set for Hannibal’s brick-layered bastion it takes little initiative to be original, set-wise, unlike its predecessor’s vision of a barren, pristine cell of pallor for the first Lektor (Brian Cox.) In tentative but indubitably ubiquitous atmosphere Red Dragon is most admirable for its broad but triumphant poetic depictions of the dissipation of sanity and wits.

The conversational foreplay between Hannibal and Graham in their interviews is cordially entwined with harsh undertones of bitterness and sardonic attitude echoing Silence, despite the prequel status. A frolicsome but melancholic meditation of murder, mayhem and the meticulous studying of their aftermaths, Red Dragon holds its levels of intensity and thrills with a tightly-knit, dour style. A dramatis personae parallel application is much less prominent here than in films of its class; the Graham perspective isn’t, admittedly, as intriguing as Dolarhyde’s, and the novel’s elucidation of his traumatic history is greatly lacking, though that would be undoubtedly superfluous in a film adaptation of any case. Lecter still has a certain, biting quality about him, though he doesn’t go much place; Hopkins’ quirky sense of camp value and shock lends his trademark role the usual charisma and his final line, albeit a bit on the corn side, is priceless