Wolf in Noble's Clothing

There is a historical precedent for the wealthy to be above the law (or above the law the poor must follow anyway).  This unspoken rule only grows stronger the further back in time we look.  The wealthy are usually well-connected and unless they tread on the toes that are wealthier, and better connected than they are, rarely do the crimes they commit come to light.  So it surprises me that Gilles de Montmorency-Laval, more commonly known as Baron Gilles de Rais, a compatriot of Joan of Arc's, was charged and sentenced to death for the murder of upwards of eighty children in 15th century France. 

Gilles de Rais was quite affluent during the Hundred Year's War with England, fighting alongside Joan of Arc.  He made quite a reputation for himself, even being granted the title, Marshall of France, but in his early thirties he retired from military life and retreated from public society.  During his retirement, he was labeled a spendthrift after his extravagant lifestyle began to catch up with him.  He depleted his fortune by funding the construction of the Chapel of Holy Innocents and staging a massive theater spectacle that he composed himself.  The theater production was so extravagant that it required 140 speaking parts and 2000 extras.  If that wasn't enough, unlimited drinks and food were available for guests, and after each production, the costumes were discarded then later remade from scratch for the next performance.    

When his coffers began running low, he would sell off one of his many estates.  Eventually, his family had to take legal steps to curb his spending, pleading to Pope Eugene IV to intervene (they were denied due to the fact de Rais was building the Chapel of Holy Innocence) but it was Charles VII who put forth a royal edict forbidding anyone from signing contracts with, or buying property from, the Baron.   

It is unknown when Gilles de Rais became interested in the occult but he began searching for those skilled in alchemy and demon summoning in the late 1430s.  After various failed attempts to summon a demon, he was informed his failures were due to the fact that he needed sacrifices--young boys.  Baron Gilles later confessed his first assaults on young boys were in the early 1430s when he was still in the military.  He confessed that he would take poor children, pamper them, dress them in lavish clothing, feast with them, and then invite them upstairs where only his innermost circle were allowed.  Once there, their dire situation would dawn on the child and Gilles reported taking pleasure in their fear.  After the killings, he would cruelly dismembered them (the most handsome of victims he would lay with beforehand).  He burned the bodies limb by limb to lessen the smell.  The ashes and bones were dumped in the moat or other hiding places. 

But for years, he was never suspected.  The only reason he was investigated was in 1440, he attempted to kidnap a member of the clergy who escaped then reported the assault to the Bishop of Nantes.  The Bishop ordered an investigation and it wasn't long before Gilles de Rais was arrested n 1440.  Due to the overwhelming amount of evidence the courts were able to bring up on him, de Rais confessed to at least 80 murders, but without the remains of the bodies the exact number is unknown.  The Bishop of Nantes sentenced him to death and he was beheaded short after.  His family was able to vie for mercy from the Bishop who allowed de Rais to be buried at Notre Dame.       

Following Gilles de Rais execution, his actual confession and guilt were called into question though.  It was theorized that he may have been a victim of the Inquisition and that his confession was nothing more than a man wanting release from the torture he was put through.    

So was he a patsy or a pedophiliac murderer?  The jury is still out on that one but it goes to show that no one, not even a powerful noble, is above the law.     

         

Night Drive Through Ketchum's Joyride

Ever since I started driving as a teenager, I used my car as a vehicle for thinking.  If I had a problem late at night, go for a ride.  By the time I got back home, I'd have an answer.  Maybe not always the right answer, but an answer which was usually better than when I started.  While I didn't particularly like this book (as I have previously discussed I'm a fan of subtlety and this story wasn't), Jack Ketchum in Joyride employs the same tactic, using his characters as a proverbial night drive.  His characters work through issues and explore ideas that aren't necessarily plot appropriate but they do reveal a lot about the characters, and most likely, Ketchum as well.

Susan, at the beginning of the novel is thinking of Wayne, and how sad and lonely his life must be.  She believes he is depressed over the loss of his mother.  She has this thought, "It occurred to her that life was only measured time, really, and you were the only measure.  Like people were all a bunch of clocks each set to a different time, each fatally winding down" (Ketchum 16).  What a beautiful image and turn of phrase.  People as clocks, tick-tocking through life until they eventually stop.  It's not a necessary thought to the novel.  It does play into death which the novel deals with heavily but it's a thought provoking sentiment.  It gets the reader thinking about life off the page.  Time is a sensitive issue to many people.  Not enough of it, too much, not enough left, etc.  Time is an obsession.  And this example exposes that and reveals it for it is.  Running out at all times.

When Lee and Carole are in the car with Wayne, Lee recalls parts of his past.  He thinks of the Summer of Love, a summer in 1967 Boston where "flower power" was in full swing and hippies were going to change the world with love.  He recognizes that they lost this war of peace and it had changed him.  His optimism for humanity faded and he filled that void with drugs and women.  He stopped teaching and started selling.  And then he says, "The problem was that he'd found out along the way, through a pretty long string of lovers, that you could burn out on passion and romance the same way you could burn out on bad dope or optimism or any other damn thing.  It happened.  And once it happened it was forever.  So that then, even when something undisputedly good came along, you maintained a kind of reserve" (Ketchum 94).

Wow.

Talk about exploring human behavior and understanding.  Dr. Al once posed us the question at orientation: what can we do, as popular fiction writers, to explore the emotional connection between reader and author?  If only I'd had the above quote as an answer.  Ketchum in a very short amount of words doesn't just sum up Lee's character, he also breaks down the fourth wall.  It's a lecture of human consciousness that doesn't read like one.  He opens up a dialogue about idealism and the human spirit that ends with Lee recognizing he doesn't have anything to lose because he's already lost it.

What Ketchum is doing is reminiscent of what I posted last time regarding what Alan Moore said about The Killing Joke.  That stories (or any form of art) should connect people on an emotional level.  Moore says his story failed because it didn't say anything interesting.  It didn't pose any new ideas or ideologies that would make people think.  It wasn't relatable.  Moore argues (and I agree) that art is not face value.  It's deep and poses deep questions on an individual level.  And that is what Ketchum is doing.  Ketchum's novel is about a mass murdering car ride.  That isn't exactly relatable but the characters are.  They live and breathe as all characters should.  But they also pose questions to themselves that actual people want the answers to.  And it's presented so subtly it's as if the characters are helping the reader answer them.

That's not just popular fiction.  That's art.

"If I I'm going to have a past, I prefer it to be multiple choice!"

Alan Moore's small contribution to DC Comic's Batman universe, Batman: The Killing Joke, is just another one of Moore's works that refuses to be ignored.  His original, non-canonical one-shot from 1988 became so popular it became canon, only adding to Moore's impressive body of work.  His decision to make Deborah (Batgirl) a paraplegic at the hands of Joker, led DC to adapt Batgirl's character into Oracle, a hacker who still fights crime even from a wheelchair.  Deborah's second secret identity has been a staple in the Batman until she was cured of her paralysis in 2011.  A small contribution in light of all that Batman has to offer, but one that has influence much,  causing ripple effects in the franchise that can still be felt today.  

I was particularly impressed with Moore's exposing of Batman and Joker's duality.  Not in themselves, but in each other.  Moore has said that Batman and the Joker are mirror images of each other.  He explores this by Joker repeating that one sane man can become insane, as he did, with just "one bad day."  We're given a backstory on Joker (not sure if he's exactly a reliable narrator, but the story of Jack and his attempt to support his wife and unborn child as a comedian carved out a piece of the Batman universe that few have tackled), and we see how his nihilistic philosophy came to be.  Joker even speculates that Batman must've suffered from a "one bad day" experience as well and that is why he is the way he is.  Is he hot or cold?  Joker uses Commissioner Gordon as a guinea pig to test this worldview.  After shooting and paralyzing Gordon's daughter, he imprisons Gordon in a hedonistic fun house where nude images of his wounded daughter are displayed in an attempt to break his spirit.  And ultimately, Gordon defies him, refusing to break and revealing the overall theme of the piece that people are strong and can withstand trauma in hopes for a greater good.   

But what I found to be even more impressive with this work was Moore's commentary on it.  Ever since it's publication, Moore has been critical of his contribution to Batman.  In the 2003 edition of The Extraordinary Works of Alan Moore, Moore stated, "[Batman: The Killing Joke] was clumsy, misjudged and had no real human importance. It was just about a couple of licensed DC characters that didn't really relate to the real world in any way."  

Interesting.  Overly critical perhaps, but profound all the same.   

This artistic vision that Moore has (or lack their of according to him), which I would consider to be anything expressed to reach people and connect to a pure, human experience, is relevant to popular genre writing as it is often the basis for the argument of whether popular fiction is considered "literature" in the proper sense of the word, or just pieces of fiction in the lowest form of the word.  These people, mostly literati, argue that popular fiction writers (more so in sci-fi/fantasy/horror genres) in creating fanciful worlds and fantastical situations for their stories, lose sight of what art is supposed to do: connect the reader to a truly unique, human experience, not just spin a tale.  They quip that the fanciful elements of popular genres are only a distraction, distancing the relationship of the work and reader.  It's a high brow sentiment but the argument undoubtably has merit.  But the argument can also go both ways.  Pop fiction writers and critics (and fans) argue that literary works are often too focused on artistry, whether that be theme or symbolism, and because of this the plot and characters suffer and are left in the background which makes the experience a dull one.  

So, where would you draw the line?  Where is the line drawn between works of guilty pleasures and works of art?

This question seems important, and one that is not nearly asked enough.  I feel like there is an attitude from popular writers that literary works are "snooty," and because of that they are somehow lesser.  Meanwhile, the literati argue that popular genre works are silly children's stories.  But any that believe this, on both sides, are ignorant.  It is not "snooty" or arrogant to attempt to transcend the page and reach people on a higher level as the Great American Novelist attempts to do.  Just as it is not silly to also attempt this artistic vision but in the sky on the back of a dragon.  If a human connection is made, the work is art of the only sense of the word.    

Think of many of your favorite works that made you want to be a popular genre writer.  For me, it was Robert Jordan's The Wheel of Time, which whether you love it or hate it, does transcend the page into a unique, human experience.  Would I love the series just as much if I were to cut out all of the battles, and magic, and fantastical lands?  No I wouldn't because I enjoy fantastical elements in stories.  But even if I did, I would still be able to connect to it.  Which is a valuable lesson in itself.  We, as popular writers, can give the readers the best of both worlds.  We can give them worlds and powers that cannot exist in our reality.  We can make them the champion of a kingdom with only the turn of the page.  But I agree with Moore, that that should only add to the essential human experience that must exist first and foremost.  This doesn't change no matter the time period, the world, the race, the situation; the connection between reader and the piece should be one and the same. 

This makes me think of my own writing.  Of course all writers attempt to connect with readers.  That's why we read, right?  To embody another person for a few hundred pages, experience what they experience, triumph in what they triumph.  But what about after that?  Can we make readers take away a truly unique, human experience?  Even if that human experience is set on an alien planet?  That's not to say is it realistic.  Realism must be achieved for even a story to work on its basest level.  I mean, are we trying to connect to people and give them an experience that they can only get when reading your book?  Do we all attempt this, or do we simply turn up our noses and just give them a show?  

Lucky Number Se7en

Horror in cinema has captured the imagination, and attention, of viewers for generations.  From the natural to the supernatural, movies that invoke fear are among the most memorable of the medium’s history.  But there is a very wide margin between those works and ‘all the rest.’  I don’t think I’ve ever seen a horror movie and thought it was ‘pretty good’ or ‘so so.’  It was either great or it wasn’t.  Why is that?  What makes a horror film great?

Psycho killer movies are usually not among great horror films.  This subgenre has a reputation of being largely trite, formulaic, and predictable.  And psycho killer films that involve a genius killer who leaves clues for law enforcement to follow can be more intriguing than your typical slasher flick, still are more often than not unremarkable.  Yet David Fincher’s Se7en stands out as remarkable, even a classic some might say.  Why?  The tropes listed above are all present in Se7en and some (hot-head rookie cop bites off more than he can chew when he partners with veteran cop who on his last day before retirement takes on the case that ends up being the biggest case of his life.  Whew), yet it stands out as a classic.  So what makes Se7en better than contemporary titles such as The Bone Collector or the Saw series?  Those films employ many of the same tropes, themes, and elements, yet one is better than the others.  What makes this one better? And what does that say about horror?

The biggest factor I believe is theme.  Due to the historical importance and western dominance of Christianity in the last millennia, Judeo-Christian myths are among the most recognizable in the world.  And because of this, many great works of literature either influenced or fueled the myths, and many of those works fuel this film as well.  The seven cardinal, or deadly, sins trace their roots back to early Christianity but were popularized in Dante Alighieri’s Divine Comedy, a masterpiece of western literature, and more importantly, at least for the film’s success, is a story people are familiar with and interested in.  I would be much more inclined to see a movie regarding the seven deadly sins than a movie about the Arishadvarga passions (Hindu) even though both theologies represent the same thing.  So a movie that explores some of Judeo-Christian’s less, well, Christian side is an appeal.  And the religious subject matter only strengthens the believability of the film as well.  Religious zealotry is terrifying on its own and when it’s combined with murder, especially ritualistic murder in an effort to teach God’s will, is only more terrifying. 

Another factor is atmosphere.  While the atmosphere of Se7en is similar to those of many horror films, it still deserves noting.  Se7en is gritty.  The setting is of the urban underbelly we don’t want to believe exists.  The color pallet is for the large part gray.  It rains most of the film with the exception of the last scene.  Fincher is using setting to reflect what is happening in the plot to great effect.  What would Se7en be like in a sunny suburb?  Probably not as remarkable I can tell you that. 

Another is cast.  The cast, while star studded, deserves noting though I feel like it makes actually little difference.  Brad Pitt, Morgan Freeman, and Gwyneth Paltrow, play their characters well though are not very memorable (to no fault of their performance, just unremarkable scripting).  Kevin Spacey on the other hand, does a fantastic job as the almost cameo he has as the killer.  Only on screen for fifteen or twenty minutes, Spacey brings the killings to life and really sells the entire picture in a few short lines.

Which brings us to the last factor, and I believe one of the most memorable.  I saved THE END for the end.  The climactic climax of Se7en turns the tropes upside down and really sets it apart from the others.  Spacey’s character, Jon Doe’s, explanation of the murders and what his plan has been the entire time makes the movie live and breathe.  The ninety minutes or so of the film start to feel a little more rounded and it really brings out what happens off screen. 

And it’s with each one of these factors working well together that makes Se7en stand out as a modern classic for other horror films in the same subgenre emulate and aspire to.     

Subtlety in Funaro's The Sculptor

Every child is drawn to good stories.  Stories that transcend time and space, and place us in the shoes of a hero or heroine that defies the odds and conquers their quest.  Centuries ago, these stories were didactic in nature and were often cautionary tales for the impressionable but still the root of the story had to be good enough that the didacticism was transparent, leaving the story arc in the foreground.  At least at first.  And that's because those stories exercised subtlety.  And it's because of subtlety that Grimm's Fairy Tales are as popular today as they were in the 1850s.  The story came first, the lesson second.  

Now, Gregory Funaro's, The Sculptor is not didactic.  There are no lessons to be taught to the impressionable child but I believe the book itself can still teach the impressionable writer a thing or two.  While the book does some things right, I recognized what not to do, especially in regards to subtlety, more so than not.

So, as a reader, what do we dislike more than anything else?  Being aware we are being told a story, right?  We want to transplant ourselves into someone else's shoes, experience what they experience, overcome what they overcome.  It doesn't take much to be pulled out of a story.  It can come in an instant with a simple word or phrase or line of dialogue, but when a reader is pulled out of the story and is suddenly aware they are reading a story, the spell the story teller is weaving is broken.  The house of cards of a narrative comes crashing down and may take some time to build back up.  And who says that reader gives the writer that kind of time?

For this entry I just want to focus on character and character motivations.  Outside the mystery and sometimes horror genre, character is usually the most important thing in a story.  They are driving the plot, right, so of course they'd come first.  Characters should think, talk, and act as real people should, correct?  Even if the story is of an alien on a space station surrounded by other alien species, there should be something that resembles human expectations of realism.  Characters should not resemble marionettes being manipulated and dragged along by the writer.  This breaks down the fourth wall and the reader recognizes that this is indeed a story, and we've been in our own shoes the entire time.  Nothing is more disappointing.  As writer's we don't want that.  So, in Gregory Funaro's, The Sculptor, the protagonist is Dr. Cathy Hildebrandt, professor of art history at Brown University.  Recently separated from her husband, Dr. Hildebrandt's life is already in a bit of a tailspin when a body is discovered posing as Michelangelo's Bacchus with her name on it.  And from the very beginning, we get a lesson on subtlety. 

When we’re first introduced to the villain, The Sculptor, he’s in his carriage house where he performs his art, in his case posing corpses in likenesses of Michelangelo sculptures.  “The Sculptor removed from the desk drawer the only book he allowed in the carriage house: his copy of Slumbering in the Stone” (Funaro 30).  While the novel up to this point has been anything but subtle this is a contained example.  Is it possible the killer only keeps Dr. Hildebrandt’s book on Michelangelo in his workspace, the space where he kills?  Absolutely.  But is it subtle?  No, it’s convenient.  Why would a sculptor rely on one text, or even one artist as an inspiration?  It would be the same if as a writer, I only read and cared about the work of one author.  I wouldn’t make a very good writer, would I?  And the same would go for The Sculptor.  It’s an intrusion by the author to keep the focus on Dr. Hildebrandt when in reality, an artist interested in classical art would appreciate and admire hundreds of artists.  In the novel, The Sculptor constantly hums classical music by various composers, why wouldn’t he like different artists and their work?  What would make for a more compelling and believable villain would be if Funaro pulled actual scholarship regarding Renaissance sculptures and made us believe through subtlety that the villain disregarded the other artists because they xyz unlike Michelangelo who is abc.  Actual research would lend itself nicely to this sort of thing.  Even if we don't understand the subtle plugs of research (I'm thinking of Michael Crichton), we'll believe it because the subtle hints will, keyword hint, at a bigger, grander picture regarding the character.    

Another example just a few pages later, “Nonetheless, the fifty-year-old lifer could not help but feel cheated that the first and only break in the biggest case of his career had fallen into Markham’s lap, for no matter how much he admired Markham, Bill Burrell was instinctively territorial.  Like a bulldog.  And this was his junkyard” (Funaro 40).  This excerpt is shortly after we’re introduced to Bill.  So without letting readers discover that Bill feels this way, we’re told outright.  Bill’s character is summed up in exposition.  Is it accurate to the character?  Sure, but does it lack subtlety?  Yes, again Funaro intrudes and tries to make us feel a certain way about a character before we have a chance to make our own conclusions, which is a falsehood in my opinion.  You can tell me a character is a certain way every time but if the evidence isn’t acted out on the page, I won’t believe you.

And while none of Dr. Hildebrandt’s and Agent Markham’s relationship is subtle, the very first mention of a connection is so forced I had to put the book down.  “Cathy detected a hint of Yankee in his voice—a disarming but relaxed formality that made her like him” (Funaro 20).  Now, imagine Funaro brought that out in a scene rather than telling us within one page of being introduced to this character.  If he stopped the line at ‘voice’ and throughout their conversation, readers inferred rather than being told how she feels, wouldn’t that have made for better writing?  He could still be just as pointed in their conversation but let us, the readers discover how characters feel, what their emotional state is.  Don’t tell us.  Because you show me an author who’s intruding in a story and I’ll show you a story I don’t believe.  

With just a pinch of subtlety, the fourth wall would remain intact and readers would have a much better appreciation for the characters, and the novel.   

The Biggest Fan

Growing up, for me, Stephen King was synonymous with the written word.  Sure Shakespeare was what they crammed down your throat in school (as they should), but King was living and breathing.  He was still producing.  Not to say that I read any of his books growing up.  No way, much too advanced for me, but I saw all the movies.  I used to watch It over and over.  Pet Cemetery was another favorite, and Stand By Me convinced me that every child actor since the 1980s are no talent upstarts that have no place being in show biz.  As a kid, reading and watching were one and the same.  Now as a much older and wiser (I hope) Stephen King fan, I can tell the difference between what’s on the page and what’s on the screen.  And after watching Misery countless times, I have to say the tried and true idiom, “the book’s better than the movie” still holds true even when the movie receives Oscar nods. 

I won’t focus too much on the story.  The story for the most part is the same.  A crazed fan kidnaps and tortures her favorite author after pulling him from a car wreck.  And while the scope of the movie is a little bigger since we get more than one point of view, the film and novel are close enough as far as that goes. 

No, what I want to discuss are the characters.  First, James Caan’s Paul Sheldon is infinitely cooler than Paul Sheldon.  And where most of the time, cool means better, here in King’s Misery, not so much.  James Caan is a tough actor.  He usually plays tough characters that remain true blue through and through and he brings that toughness to Paul Sheldon.  But Paul Sheldon isn’t tough.  He is what I imagine King is: a physically weak, squirrely kind of writer.  It’s a personality that makes you wonder if he really will make it out of this or not.  And we see this from the very beginning of the novel.  As soon as Paul is semi-coherent, he is already cowed by Annie.  He begs for his meds.  He drinks dish water.  It isn't until Annie makes him burn his manuscript that he begins to recognize he must fight.  And that's where the sly, James Caan version begins to rear his ugly-soon-to-be-one-legged-head.

And while James Caan plays up Paul Sheldon's toughness, Cathy Bates played down Annie Wilkes's.  In the film, Cathy Bates was lauded for her performance and she should have been.  She does a fantastic job.  But the artistic direction of her character is down played tremendously.  Annie Wilkes isn't the loving, manic-depressive, number one fan that slowly transforms into the crazed woman bent on killing her favorite author.  No, she's a manipulative nut-job who, from the very beginning, tells Paul he owes everything to her kindness and generosity.  The transformation in the novel is much more subtle and drawn out.  It’s more of a demotion of levels of psychosis.  Paul knows from the very first pages, it's strange that he isn't in the hospital but he's smart enough not to ask.  And she never mentions it either.  She gives him no hope from the very beginning that help will come for him.  And it’s that constant taunting as Paul struggles to find hope that Annie quickly extinguishes that brings more and more out of the story that the film lacks.

And it’s that hopelessness that brings the real horror aspect of the story out.  In the film, we’re shown in multiple perspectives what is happening. In fact, he never asks.  We get Paul and the old sheriff in town.  We get eagle's eye views of what's transpiring.  In the novel, Paul's all we get.  So we have no idea if his car is found, if there’s a manhunt, anything.  We're as much alone as Paul.  Imagine how much more terrifying that would’ve been to see on the silver screen?

The Silence Too Loud To Be Shushed

Now that I have one of Thomas Harris's stories under my belt, it's about time I do another, right?  Well, not quite. Not the first of Harris's stories on the silver screen but the first notable, John Demme's The Silence of the Lambs did more than just bring Harris's work to the mainstream.  It popularized one of the most inventive psychos that you just hate to love from any medium.  While in my previous post, I stated it was nice that Hannibal began as a mere footnote in Harris's first novel in this universe, Silence of the Lambs is where Hannibal Lecter really takes on a life of his own and undoubtedly contributes to the film’s lasting impression.  Psycho films are a dime a dozen but few can make you root for the psychotic character, especially that of a pseudo-villain like Hannibal Lecter.  

Where novels are a primarily solo endeavor, films are a collaboration of epic proportions.  And there are few parties (two for me) that make this film not only a success, but one that stands the test of time. 

If we’re giving out credit where credit is due, first we have director John Demme to thank.  First, let’s establish this film is not scary.  I don't even think it's supposed to be scary.  At least not the type of horror that makes you jump or gives you bad dreams.  If it is scary, its characters are scary only on the subject of believability.  The characters are realistic, and that level of realism makes it scary that a Buffalo Bill/Hannibal Lecter could exist.  It's not like Red Dragon.  The gruesome details are off screen and implied (with the exception of Hannibal breaking free).  But, and it's a big but, Demme's choice of camera angles are what add a sense of foreboding, a sense of fear, that otherwise the film would seriously lack.  The camera, when shooting character interactions, are often in close-up frames where only the character’s eyes and facial expressions can be seen.  And while the settings are for the most part normal (with the exception of the asylum, Bill’s house, and the storage facility), they are eerie.  The camera gives the film a sense of creepiness that would otherwise not be there.  The settings are for all practical purposes, safe and normal.  It's the camera that makes them uncomfortable such as Dr. Chilton and Jack Crawford's office.  They're safe places: well lit, surrounded by law enforcement and orderlies but the camera angles make them feel predatory.  We become on edge as we watch the twitches and quirks appear on Starling or Chilton’s face.  

And secondly, and most memorably, we have the cast.  While there are many Hollywood elite that star in Silence of the Lambs, Anthony Hopkins undoubtedly steals the show as Hannibal Lecter.  He brought the deep, complex character to life in a way only he could.  There are some roles people are born to play and I believe that one was meant for him.  Jody Foster's is by no means groundbreaking in her performance as Clarice Starling but she is still memorable.  Clarice’s character is a believable portrayal of a young student trying desperately to advance her career/cope with the responsibility she's been given.  There's a real sense of her being in over her head the film over.  And it's that feeling that is by no means spelled out for you, in which she fuels the film towards being truly unique.  It's a feeling that is never elaborated on, drawn attention to, or even given a label (and we know Lecter would have).  It's subtle, and that to me, is where the real brilliance of the movie lies.  We feel it because she feels it.