Scott gives us both too much and not enough Lecter. Hopkins is the
central attraction, but Thomas Harris' plot mechanics keep him pinned
down, and he's much less interesting as a protagonist than he was
lurking in the periphery. The reverse holds true for a marginalised
Starling, Jodie Foster's empathetic vulnerability giving way to the
strange, steely reserve of Julianne Moore. The novel's incomparably
grisly set pieces translate very stylishly, but Scott's halting
command of suspense is a major problem; all the more reason, then, to
applaud the central Florence section, which bristles with dread as
detective Giancarlo Giannini edges closer and closer to the
precipice.
