Murray: Is it true what they're sayin', he's some kinda vampire?
Clarice Starling: They don't have a name for what he is.
Clarice Starling: They don't have a name for what he is.
I was six when Silence of the Lambs was released.
However, I think I was in fourth grade or so when I actually saw it. One would think that my father, a shrink, might shy away from allowing his young daughter to view a film so disturbing on many levels. However, he never prevented me from watching R-rated movies. I think he wanted me to learn the truth of the world that, as a forensic psychologist, he was confronted with every day.
Now, I think that maybe he was so desensitized from psychotic murderers that he hardly thought about them obtusely anymore; perhaps he didn't consider them to be some foreign, scary entity that he should keep secret from his children. After all, he has visited Death Row in 40 states at this point, surely having endless, charming discussions with these societal terrors. Introducing his children to the evil in the world through fictional vehicles, preparing them for reality instead of shielding their eyes like evil doesn't exist, might have even been a good idea.
Anyway, Silence of the Lambs did affect me psychologically, but not in a negative way. I was not afraid of the film, nor was I afraid of similar films. Instead, this film birthed a fascination that most people would see as morbidly alarming; my favorite stories became those of psychos, or those who are so flawed they cannot prevent committing evil acts. For example, in early highschool, I read Vincent Bugliosi's Helter Skelter--a nonfiction work that chronicles Charles Manson and "the family's" times and crimes together--several times. The book now sits creased and dogeared on my bookshelf, and I try to coerce everyone who comes to view my library into borrowing it and reading it.
Hannibal Lecter is as fearsome as characters get; not only does he murder without conscience or oftentimes, discernible motive; he's a cannibal. But what most intrigued me about him is that he is absolutely brilliant. He's cultured and eloquent; and Charles Manson was brilliant, too. People were drawn to Manson like moths to light. He brainwashed upperclass 20-somethings to the point of no return.
Speaking of moths, the moth is the most memorable symbol of Silence of the Lambs. After I watched the film, I went to put myself to bed, folding back the sheets of my four-poster canopy bed to reveal one piece of glittering insect confetti neatly nestled in my linens. Presently, I don't recall the arts and crafts project that called for glittering insect confetti, but I do recall pausing to reflect the irony of its coincidental appearance in my bed that night.
As I've mentioned, this film birthed an intense curiosity in criminology. I believed I wanted to pursue the career path of my father's, but he once told me, "Emily, a woman can't do this job. A woman can't leave the things I hear behind at the end of the day. It would ruin you." He didn't mean this in the way it may sound to outsiders. He wants nothing more than for his daughters to be empowered in the world. But perhaps my curiosity is best confined to experiencing books, films, and stories from my father's workday.
Silence of the Lambs first introduced me to the concept of neurological complexity, and the idea that we aren't always products of our environments. REAL EVIL EXISTS. It cannot be defeated. This is the way of the world. There's always something hidden at work, and there are flaws in every system; Hannibal Lecter, a highly educated psychiatrist who listened to classical music while he dined on human flesh, is an oxymoron of sorts. He has no known childhood trauma that motivates his evil nature. Then there's Clarice Starling, who, as an orphan, experienced the trauma of stumbling upon a lamb slaughterhouse and failing to save the lambs from death, yet she came out on the opposite side of the prison bars as Hannibal Lecter even though she was introduced to the ugliness of the world early. I will always search for what this mysterious variable of goodness and evil in humanity actually is, though I don't think an answer exists. Some may turn to answers in faith, and some may turn to answers in science; but I'm almost satisfied in the fact there isn't an answer. There is just humanity, and humanity doesn't entail a vast and inherent moral conscience that gets thwarted through experience. Humanity does entail power and desire. Once we can admit that, we can get somewhere, and I think learning this in fourth grade isn't detrimental. After all, in some way or another, we are all taught to deny desire on some level. Our mothers tell us, "No, you can't eat any more candy," or "You should just be grateful for what you have," etc. I don't think these examples do the trick, because the majority of people grow up wondering, "What's so wrong about giving into my desires?" and they get lazy and end up like Tiger Woods. The example of the parental abstinence sermon isn't a good way to convey the denial of desire, either. We need to see something really, really ugly to understand why desire can be so dark, and it is something of which to be wary.
Now, I think that maybe he was so desensitized from psychotic murderers that he hardly thought about them obtusely anymore; perhaps he didn't consider them to be some foreign, scary entity that he should keep secret from his children. After all, he has visited Death Row in 40 states at this point, surely having endless, charming discussions with these societal terrors. Introducing his children to the evil in the world through fictional vehicles, preparing them for reality instead of shielding their eyes like evil doesn't exist, might have even been a good idea.
Anyway, Silence of the Lambs did affect me psychologically, but not in a negative way. I was not afraid of the film, nor was I afraid of similar films. Instead, this film birthed a fascination that most people would see as morbidly alarming; my favorite stories became those of psychos, or those who are so flawed they cannot prevent committing evil acts. For example, in early highschool, I read Vincent Bugliosi's Helter Skelter--a nonfiction work that chronicles Charles Manson and "the family's" times and crimes together--several times. The book now sits creased and dogeared on my bookshelf, and I try to coerce everyone who comes to view my library into borrowing it and reading it.
Hannibal Lecter is as fearsome as characters get; not only does he murder without conscience or oftentimes, discernible motive; he's a cannibal. But what most intrigued me about him is that he is absolutely brilliant. He's cultured and eloquent; and Charles Manson was brilliant, too. People were drawn to Manson like moths to light. He brainwashed upperclass 20-somethings to the point of no return.
Speaking of moths, the moth is the most memorable symbol of Silence of the Lambs. After I watched the film, I went to put myself to bed, folding back the sheets of my four-poster canopy bed to reveal one piece of glittering insect confetti neatly nestled in my linens. Presently, I don't recall the arts and crafts project that called for glittering insect confetti, but I do recall pausing to reflect the irony of its coincidental appearance in my bed that night.
As I've mentioned, this film birthed an intense curiosity in criminology. I believed I wanted to pursue the career path of my father's, but he once told me, "Emily, a woman can't do this job. A woman can't leave the things I hear behind at the end of the day. It would ruin you." He didn't mean this in the way it may sound to outsiders. He wants nothing more than for his daughters to be empowered in the world. But perhaps my curiosity is best confined to experiencing books, films, and stories from my father's workday.
Silence of the Lambs first introduced me to the concept of neurological complexity, and the idea that we aren't always products of our environments. REAL EVIL EXISTS. It cannot be defeated. This is the way of the world. There's always something hidden at work, and there are flaws in every system; Hannibal Lecter, a highly educated psychiatrist who listened to classical music while he dined on human flesh, is an oxymoron of sorts. He has no known childhood trauma that motivates his evil nature. Then there's Clarice Starling, who, as an orphan, experienced the trauma of stumbling upon a lamb slaughterhouse and failing to save the lambs from death, yet she came out on the opposite side of the prison bars as Hannibal Lecter even though she was introduced to the ugliness of the world early. I will always search for what this mysterious variable of goodness and evil in humanity actually is, though I don't think an answer exists. Some may turn to answers in faith, and some may turn to answers in science; but I'm almost satisfied in the fact there isn't an answer. There is just humanity, and humanity doesn't entail a vast and inherent moral conscience that gets thwarted through experience. Humanity does entail power and desire. Once we can admit that, we can get somewhere, and I think learning this in fourth grade isn't detrimental. After all, in some way or another, we are all taught to deny desire on some level. Our mothers tell us, "No, you can't eat any more candy," or "You should just be grateful for what you have," etc. I don't think these examples do the trick, because the majority of people grow up wondering, "What's so wrong about giving into my desires?" and they get lazy and end up like Tiger Woods. The example of the parental abstinence sermon isn't a good way to convey the denial of desire, either. We need to see something really, really ugly to understand why desire can be so dark, and it is something of which to be wary.
Hannibal Lecter: First principles, Clarice. Simplicity. Read Marcus Aurelius. Of each particular thing ask: what is it in itself? What is its nature? What does he do, this man you seek?
Clarice Starling: He kills women...
Hannibal Lecter: No. That is incidental. What is the first and principal thing he does? What needs does he serve by killing?
Clarice Starling: Anger, um, social acceptance, and, huh, sexual frustrations, sir...
Hannibal Lecter: No! He covets. That is his nature. And how do we begin to covet, Clarice? Do we seek out things to covet? Make an effort to answer now.
Clarice Starling: No. We just...
Hannibal Lecter: No. We begin by coveting what we see every day. Don't you feel eyes moving over your body, Clarice? And don't your eyes seek out the things you want?
Source: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0102926/quotes
Clarice Starling: He kills women...
Hannibal Lecter: No. That is incidental. What is the first and principal thing he does? What needs does he serve by killing?
Clarice Starling: Anger, um, social acceptance, and, huh, sexual frustrations, sir...
Hannibal Lecter: No! He covets. That is his nature. And how do we begin to covet, Clarice? Do we seek out things to covet? Make an effort to answer now.
Clarice Starling: No. We just...
Hannibal Lecter: No. We begin by coveting what we see every day. Don't you feel eyes moving over your body, Clarice? And don't your eyes seek out the things you want?
Source: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0102926/quotes
This film taught me that real power is that of brilliance. It isn't of morality. We have to WORK for the latter, and it's important to work for goodness. Hannibal Lecter, confined behind bars, would at first glance seem powerless to FBI Agent Clarice Starling. But she goes to the prison to interrogate Lecter for answers concerning Buffalo Bill, and instead, he interrogates her to reveal things to him she's kept hidden from even herself. Who really has the power?
