In this season premiere episode, Hannibal Lecter describes Kaiseki as "a Japanese art form that honors the taste and aesthetic of what we eat." The same is true of showrunner Bryan Fuller's beautiful and twisted prequel series. His take on the world's most famous cannibalistic doctor is at once horrifying and immaculately constructed. The taste is bitter, with its disturbing violence and intense focus on the inner workings of a serial killer. Yet, the show goes down smoothly, due to a refusal to shy away from the truth. Hannibal knows that death is a terrible finality, and monsters lurk in the shadows of its world, making sure no one ever forgets. Fuller and company never for a moment pretend the darkness of their series can be marginalized or shrugged off at the end of an hour. The grim reality haunts the characters as thoroughly as it does the audience.
The aesthetic of the show's parade of terrors is paradoxically captivating. The cinematography is in a class of its own, surpassing everything else on television. Each shot has a distinct visual weight, whether the camera frames the hypnotic blue light of a metronome or a screaming man at the center of a giant iris made of human bodies. Hannibal's composition is a study in contrasts: beauty and death; splashes of eye-caching color in otherwise dark environments; nightmarish hallucinations made mesmerizing. In fact, the entire production has a dreamlike quality, urging the viewer to float along a current of striking imagery and purposefully disjointed plotting. Under the guise of a serial killer procedural, the show is an ambitious technical treat, merging form and function in novel ways.
These strengths are on full display in the excellent "Kaiseki," an episode with a chilling case of the week and strong thematic exploration. Will Graham has been framed for Hannibal's crimes, leaving him alone and locked up in an insane asylum. No one believes his protestations of innocence, despite Will's newfound certainty of Dr. Lecter's true nature. Meanwhile, a killer is dumping bodies embalmed with silicone and sealed with resin into the river, forcing Jack to bring Hannibal aboard to replace Graham. Many of the characters hide behind a facade, concerned with keeping up an appearance that belies the secrets just beneath the service. In a show concerned with aesthetic beauty, it is interesting that the people at the center are an ugly mess on the inside. Hannibal presents the true consequences of every action, but Jack and company either lie to themselves or to others.
In the former camp, Laurence Fishburne's Agent Crawford attempts to assuage his guilt over placing Will in danger by insisting that the man must be lying or delusional. His visit to Graham's home suggests there is a part of him that suspects Will is telling the truth, but he represses those feelings in order to avoid admitting he locked up the wrong man. "I can't hear this anymore," he says to Will when Lecter's guilt is brought up. He can't hear because listening would mean the fundamental realignment of his worldview. Part of that worldview is the trust Jack places in Hannibal, who is all poise and seeming transparency. As their incredibly choreographed opening fight reveals, these two men can be dangerous when the truth comes out and artifice falls away. The scene of Crawford and Lecter discussing Will over dinner demonstrates just how much the agent buys in to the doctor's manipulative illusion. When Jack finally sees the reality, he is forced to confront everything he thought he knew about the world around him. The guilt transforms into rage, an all-consuming anger with one target. The episode serves as a reminder that one cannot simply turn away from the unpleasant, for it will become an unavoidable nightmare.
Hannibal Lecter is the embodiment of the show's ability to examine the hideous with tasteful elegance. The most heinous evil imaginable can appear pleasant and refined. The man's smarmy confidence is conveyed perfectly by Mads Mikkelsen, who is understated, yet terrifying as he smiles at his guests from across the table. The doctor can admit that he is a murderer, and his audience will laugh it off. His charm is infectious, and his lies sound like honesty. "Kaiseki" peers beneath the tailored suits to expose Hannibal as the demon he is.
Will escapes from his cage in the asylum by inhabiting daydreams of fishing in peaceful waters. He isn't just taking a vacation, however; He is looking for memories he can use to prove his adversary's guilt. Graham's flights of fancy illustrate Hannibal's distinctive connection between visuals and narrative. Lecter rises from the river, ink black, horned and almost satanic. This dream version is more real than the man on the other side of the Asylum's bars. Hugh Dancy gives Season 2 a Will Graham with building confidence, contrasting nicely with the shaky, emotionally lost man from last year. The scenes inside Will's head give the series some of its most vivid imagery yet, including a great sequence in which Graham sits down for a feast at Hannibal's table. The man is using his creative, probing mind to find a way out, raising the stakes for episodes to come on multiple fronts. The one person who sees everything clearly and speaks his mind, it will be intriguing to find out if anyone comes around to Will's point of view.
The case of the week mirrors ideas established with the character work. Just as the images that Jack and Hannibal projected conflicted with reality, the killer is attempting to preserve life in things that are dead. The "models" made of corpses are an effort to bring energy and vitality to nothing more than a shell. These victims are hollowed out, empty visions of what once was. Yet, there is a perverse artistry to their eventual arrangement in the shape of an eye. It is an approximation of humanity--the strongest impressions are made through what one can see--without an essential component. A different sort of artistry allows Agent Crawford and Lecter to continue pretending, but they too lack grounding in the truth.
Hannibal comes roaring back in "Kaiseki," with a stirring episode that bodes well for the show's creative future. As Fuller draws the viewer farther into his imagination, the possibilities are greater--and more creepy--than ever before.
Cannon's Rating: 9/10
These strengths are on full display in the excellent "Kaiseki," an episode with a chilling case of the week and strong thematic exploration. Will Graham has been framed for Hannibal's crimes, leaving him alone and locked up in an insane asylum. No one believes his protestations of innocence, despite Will's newfound certainty of Dr. Lecter's true nature. Meanwhile, a killer is dumping bodies embalmed with silicone and sealed with resin into the river, forcing Jack to bring Hannibal aboard to replace Graham. Many of the characters hide behind a facade, concerned with keeping up an appearance that belies the secrets just beneath the service. In a show concerned with aesthetic beauty, it is interesting that the people at the center are an ugly mess on the inside. Hannibal presents the true consequences of every action, but Jack and company either lie to themselves or to others.
In the former camp, Laurence Fishburne's Agent Crawford attempts to assuage his guilt over placing Will in danger by insisting that the man must be lying or delusional. His visit to Graham's home suggests there is a part of him that suspects Will is telling the truth, but he represses those feelings in order to avoid admitting he locked up the wrong man. "I can't hear this anymore," he says to Will when Lecter's guilt is brought up. He can't hear because listening would mean the fundamental realignment of his worldview. Part of that worldview is the trust Jack places in Hannibal, who is all poise and seeming transparency. As their incredibly choreographed opening fight reveals, these two men can be dangerous when the truth comes out and artifice falls away. The scene of Crawford and Lecter discussing Will over dinner demonstrates just how much the agent buys in to the doctor's manipulative illusion. When Jack finally sees the reality, he is forced to confront everything he thought he knew about the world around him. The guilt transforms into rage, an all-consuming anger with one target. The episode serves as a reminder that one cannot simply turn away from the unpleasant, for it will become an unavoidable nightmare.
Hannibal Lecter is the embodiment of the show's ability to examine the hideous with tasteful elegance. The most heinous evil imaginable can appear pleasant and refined. The man's smarmy confidence is conveyed perfectly by Mads Mikkelsen, who is understated, yet terrifying as he smiles at his guests from across the table. The doctor can admit that he is a murderer, and his audience will laugh it off. His charm is infectious, and his lies sound like honesty. "Kaiseki" peers beneath the tailored suits to expose Hannibal as the demon he is.
Will escapes from his cage in the asylum by inhabiting daydreams of fishing in peaceful waters. He isn't just taking a vacation, however; He is looking for memories he can use to prove his adversary's guilt. Graham's flights of fancy illustrate Hannibal's distinctive connection between visuals and narrative. Lecter rises from the river, ink black, horned and almost satanic. This dream version is more real than the man on the other side of the Asylum's bars. Hugh Dancy gives Season 2 a Will Graham with building confidence, contrasting nicely with the shaky, emotionally lost man from last year. The scenes inside Will's head give the series some of its most vivid imagery yet, including a great sequence in which Graham sits down for a feast at Hannibal's table. The man is using his creative, probing mind to find a way out, raising the stakes for episodes to come on multiple fronts. The one person who sees everything clearly and speaks his mind, it will be intriguing to find out if anyone comes around to Will's point of view.
The case of the week mirrors ideas established with the character work. Just as the images that Jack and Hannibal projected conflicted with reality, the killer is attempting to preserve life in things that are dead. The "models" made of corpses are an effort to bring energy and vitality to nothing more than a shell. These victims are hollowed out, empty visions of what once was. Yet, there is a perverse artistry to their eventual arrangement in the shape of an eye. It is an approximation of humanity--the strongest impressions are made through what one can see--without an essential component. A different sort of artistry allows Agent Crawford and Lecter to continue pretending, but they too lack grounding in the truth.
Hannibal comes roaring back in "Kaiseki," with a stirring episode that bodes well for the show's creative future. As Fuller draws the viewer farther into his imagination, the possibilities are greater--and more creepy--than ever before.
Cannon's Rating: 9/10