Illustration by Meghan Flood.
Originally published in print March 2021.
Thirty years on from its original release, The Silence of the Lambs (Jonathan Demme, 1991) remains an enduring cultural touchstone. Even those who have never seen the film will still likely recognise a certain infamous quote involving fava beans and a nice chianti. So iconic is Dr Hannibal ‘the Cannibal’ Lecter that first-time viewers may be surprised that Clarice Starling is hunting another serial killer entirely, the demented woman-killer Buffalo Bill / Jame Gumb (played with unnerving efficacy by Ted Levine). Silence brought groundbreaking gravitas to its gripping, if grisly, story of serial killers and cannibalistic psychopaths, material once primarily the preserve of pulpy thrills. The effects can be seen in the media landscape to this day, from weighty crime dramas to true crime deep-dives.
The central performances remain of gold standard. Jodie Foster never lets you forget that Clarice is an FBI recruit painfully out of her depth, yet also suggests an unshakeable inner determination. Anthony Hopkins’ Lecter on the other hand combines a chilling stillness with a camp flair for the theatrical to enthralling effect.
Suspense is built masterfully throughout the film. The relentless close-ups build intensity to occasionally unbearable heights. Brief twists of humour let you off the hook now and then, but the edge of your seat rarely gets a break. There is no flab in this film; it exploits every minute of its near two-hour running time to the fullest extent. Horror and the thriller, the two genres from which Silence draws its lifeblood, can be particularly susceptible to ageing as story beats become too familiar and new techniques become ubiquitous and stale. Not so with Silence. The twists still thrill, the characters still compel.
In certain regards, Silence possesses a prescience that makes it feel remarkably fresh. Seen through the prism of post-#Me Too sexual politics, it is striking how much attention the film pays to what it means to move through the world as a woman. Clarice first appears surrounded by soaring pine trees as she jogs through a symbolically weighted obstacle course, but more often than not it is male colleagues and professional contacts crowding her out, looking down on her, excluding her, dismissing her.
Clarice is a woman in a man’s world. Her femininity, and in particular her sexuality, keep getting in the way of her doing her job. She is so consistently hit on or leered at that it almost becomes a grim running joke. Lecter is genteelly appalled when a fellow inmate flicks his semen at her, but he is not above wondering voyeuristically about her sexual history and the nature of boss Jack Crawford’s interest in her. Crawford himself is Lecter’s subtle double, his investment in Clarice teetering uneasily between the paternal and the sexual. Crawford’s lingering handshake with Clarice at her graduation overlaps with a wittily ominous surprise call from Lecter to conclude the film on a note of lurking dread.
Sex and death form a macabre dyad, the two meeting constantly in the female body. We don’t see any of Bill’s murders, but we see plenty of his naked, mutilated victims. Clarice is alternately (or simultaneously) lusted after and menaced. Bill reaches out to caress Clarice’s hair and then points a gun at her head. Look closely at the film’s iconic poster and you’ll see that the skull on the death’s head moth is in fact a miniature copy of the famous photo In Voluptas Mors, in which seven naked women form the shape of a skull.
The film’s treatment of vulnerability is complex. Crawford sends Clarice to Lecter in the hopes that a young, pretty, female trainee will disarm him, presenting her with an invaluable opportunity for advancement. Clarice trades her deepest secrets for information on Bill from Lecter. But it is a double-edged sword that cuts ruthlessly. We see Clarice reduced to tears after her first meeting with Lecter, fighting them back as she examines the body of a victim. In the film’s climax, we watch her stumbling around in the dark, blind and terrified. Horror has a long-standing relationship with female vulnerability. This is the genre that gave us the trope of the final girl: the last survivor must be a girl because, bluntly, it heightens the sense of danger. Clarice straddles the line between final girl and heroine, victim and saviour. Her vulnerability draws us in and keeps us terrified.
The perspective of thirty years is not uniformly kind to Silence. LGBT groups criticised the characterisation of Jame Gumb at the time of the film’s release and the advances in understanding since 1991 only make this aspect more obviously problematic. Gumb has had relationships with men and women, although he is not explicitly identified as bisexual. He is making a woman-suit to become a woman, but Lecter insists he is not truly trans. Yet the film draws horror from the transgression of gender boundaries in a way that deserves scrutiny. A particularly memorable scene in which Gumb dances naked for the camera, made up, penis tucked – as Catherine screams from her makeshift prison – is troubling in more ways than one.
Flaws and all, The Silence of the Lambs still demands viewing, engagement, and interrogation. It is a cultural moment, a fascinating piece of art, and a simply brilliant piece of entertainment. A cinematic masterpiece: it remains, at thirty years and counting, an essential watch.
