The 1991 film of Thomas Harris’ Silence of the Lambs, directed by Jonathan Demme and starring Anthony Hopkins as Lecter, is considered such a masterpiece that any attempt to recreate its brilliance seems doomed: director Nikolai Foster was brave enough to try; however, this play seems throughout burdened by Hopkins’ unmatched performance in the on-screen version.
FBI rising-star Clarice Starling is sent to interview the infamous Hannibal Lecter, the famed psychiatrist turned cannibal. Taking a liking to the ambitious rookie, Lecter becomes both mentor and companion to FBI Starling, guiding her and the Bureau in the pursuit of psychopath Jame Gumb, nicknamed ‘Buffalo Bill’.
The Hannibal we meet has certainly been dressed like Anthony Hopkins; he stands like him, and looks like him, but throughout the play, one craves Hopkins in place of John Partridge.
John Partridge’s Hannibal Lecter clamours and shouts in a deep-southern drawl: visually exciting, but Lecter’s characteristic dispassion and mechanical nature are largely forgotten. The play also relies too heavily on Partridge, so that it left the two-hour runtime feeling as if it rushed by every other scene.
Mollie Gallagher’s Clarice Starling was an effective foil, bringing much needed charm and intelligence to the two-handed rapport. She performs with much emotion, however, with indomitable bravery and stoicism, at times seeming more like Lecter than Partridge himself.
One key theme is the unwanted male pressures placed upon women. This binds each male character: the advances of the rowdy ensemble of FBI rookies to the perverted Fredrick Chilton are paralleled in the brutalities of Jame Gumb. Yet among them, it is Lecter who seems the most disgusting in his sexual innuendos, keeping little of the original character’s chivalric code.
Minal Patel’s Chilton, meanwhile, is underused and lacks the sleaziness of his cinematic counterpart: so much that his famous demise, as ‘the old friend’ who visits Lecter for dinner, is completely removed.
Adapter Gina Gionfriddo awkwardly, albeit understandably, removes any suggestion of ‘Buffalo Bill’ as trans. In its place, Jame Gumb is motivated by a desire to become a mother, which bears an all-too-noticeable resemblance to Psycho (Hitchcock). The change seems hardly worth the time spent on its exposition, and seems like an excessively cautious attempt to modernise the story; especially since the book explicitly acknowledges that Gumb is not trans, and denies any correlation between his violence and trans identity.
Sam Jackson’s Jame Gumb is a captivating addition. However, his insanity is proven not through egregious displays of madness and swastika-covered bedsheets, but a series of increasingly uncomfortable dates, filled with heavy-handed irony, the audience feels more inclined to shout ‘he’s behind you’ than stir with dread.
Stranger still is his relationship with his prisoner Cathrine Martin (Lottie Amor), whose attempts to seduce her captor across a series of escapades give little sense of horror and desperation.
The play cannibalises the most beloved moments of its source material but cannot live up to them: though a careful yet loving homage with a capable cast, it would benefit from originality.
Photo Credit: Marc Brenner
