The evolution of the legacy of a work of literature is slippery thing. Rarely it is that evolution completely out of the hands of the author, though in almost all cases it is mostly beyond the creator’s control. Less rare, but still outside the bounds of the usual are those cases where the legacy of a novel is pulled in various directions after publication as a result of the author and external influences working in tandem, even if completely independent of each other.
Such a case is the legacy of The Silence of the Lambs. When initially published, its author was far from a household name. This was even more true of its most defining character despite having not only been featured in the author’s previous, but also given cinematic immortality in the capable and assured hands of talented actor Brian Cox. That movie, which retitled Thomas Harris’ novel that introduced Hannibal Lecter from Red Dragon to Manhunter impressed critics, but not moviegoers. Nevertheless, Harris decided that Lecter was a strong enough minor character in his first novel to make him a much bigger player in a sequel. Dino De Laurentiis had produced Manhunter and thus owned the rights to the Lecter character, but was not interesting in a movie featuring him since the first one flopped. So lacking was the legendary director in the potential to mind gold from Hannibal Lecter that when Harris and director Jonathan Demme came looking to make an offer to buy the rights back, De Laurentiis gave away the rights to Lecter in perpetuity. For free.
The legacy that Silence of the Lambs holds in literary history in general, but more specifically history in the history of author Thomas Harris might well be considerably different if Manhunter had become the kind of monster box office and Oscar darling that the film version of its sequel became. For one thing, it almost a sure bet that Brian Cox would have been brought back on board. For another, Jonathan Demme might never have gotten anywhere the property. And, finally, there is that success of the film.
Overnight, Hannibal Lecter went from being a major character but hardly the central figure in a crime thriller by a relatively obscure writer. He’s not even the main killer in a book about the FBI’s search for a serial killer! Lecter is always on the periphery in both Red Dragon and The Silence of the Lambs. Harris intuited that the strength of such an unlikely character lies in keeping him shrouded in an air of mystery and uncertainty. Readers want answers about why the suspect in an investigative thriller does what he does. They care less about having all the answers when a character is already behind bars.
As such, with the publication of the novel, Harris seemed to be working toward Lecter becoming a presence in future novels always lurking in the shadows, but never stepping into the sunlight. When Brian Cox failed to transform “Hannibal the Cannibal” into a proper rival for the affections moviegoers had for Jason and Michael Myers and Freddy Krueger, this future arrived in the form of what remains his most critically acclaimed novel. And then a funny thing happened to Lecter and his creator.
Anthony Hopkins chilled moviegoers everywhere and actually took home the Best Actor Oscar—not the Best Supporting Actor Oscar—for a performance taking up less than 20 minutes of screen time. Almost overnight, Lecter was taking on a life of his own and defying his creator to contain him. The Silence of the Lambs sold more copies following the release of the film than it had in the years leading up to the movie. Lecter had become something he was never meant to be. Not just a leading character, not even just an unlikely romantic character, but a pop culture icon. And when the pop culture seizes on a new icon, they refuse to let go and only the strongest-willed of authors can keep the lid on brass bottled in which they trapped a genie.
Any number of things might have led to The Silence of the Lambs setting the template for a number of equally fascinating murder mysteries in which Lecter remained in the shadows doling out advice and all the way secretly plotting his own personal machinations against authority. The stars did not align that way, however, and now—with the blessing and complicity of Thomas Harris—Hannibal Lecter not only pulled off the most unlikely romance in latter-20th century Amercan fiction by winning the heart of Clarice Starling, he also threw off the shackles of being a demented cannibal antihero and transformed into the real thing.
A hero of the written word and screens both big and small. In the process, the legacy of The Silence of the Lambs has become one of contemplating what might have been.
