Dir. Michael Mann, US, 1986, 119 mins (US: 124 mins)
Cast: William Petersen, Kim Greist, Joan Allen, Brian Cox, Dennis Farina, Tom Noonan
Review by Dave Hall
Twenty years on from its initial release, Michael Mann’s third feature is well established as a cult favourite, and now seems ahead of its time in its visual and thematic approach (though some of the soundtrack choices root it firmly circa TV’s Miami Vice). An adaptation of Red Dragon, Thomas Harris’ novel about a tormented FBI profiler and a William Blake-obsessed serial killer, Manhunter largely shuns heroics and special effects in favour of slow-burning tension and horror that lives mainly in the imagination.
It is also notable as the first film to feature cinema’s favourite art-loving cannibal, Hannibal Lecter (spelled Lecktor in the film). Lecktor is very much a bit part player in terms of screen time; but, as portrayed with malevolent hangdog charm by Brian Cox in bleached white cell and uniform, his brooding presence constantly torments FBI investigator Will Graham (Petersen) in his pursuit of toothy serial killer Francis Dollarhyde (Noonan).
The film cleverly subverts our expectations of its cool visuals and police procedural narrative; Graham is one of Mann’s compromised heroes, a cop who can put himself in the mind of the killers he stalks, but who risks mental meltdown the deeper he goes. He works alone, all but bypassing evidence-gathering and legwork, and visiting crime scenes only to instinctively recreate the killer’s mindset and modus operandi. He’s a detective of the psyche, and when he consults Lecktor on the case, the good doctor accuses him of being not unlike the men he stalks: an idea that’s a bit too close to the truth for Graham…
As so often with Mann, the moral waters are muddied. We spend quality time with the tortured Dollarhyde, who embarks on a faltering, doomed first-time romance with a blind work colleague Reba McClane (Allen), even as he is planning his next murders. A race against time develops, with Graham turning action hero in the final scenes as he takes out both Dollarhyde and his own demons to the strains of Iron Butterfly’s prog rock opus In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida.
It’s striking how much the look of Manhunter has in common with that of science-fiction. This is explicit in the airless interior of Dollarhyde’s home, whose walls, featuring a giant moonscape and photographs of the moon and stars, suggest he might be yearning for a distant planet. Huge, cavernous buildings, all glass and metal; sterile, minimalist houses that are lit to look like boxes; hermetically-sealed hotel rooms and offices; even the Florida beach where Crawford persuades Graham back into his profiler role is made to look like a hyper-real studio interior. This displaced, detached feel subdues the potentially lurid subject matter and creates an almost elegiac feel unusual for a thriller.
Even Dollarhyde’s robotic movements give him an android-like quality, as if Mann is reprising the central hunter-hunted relationship of Blade Runner. By contrast, Graham’s swaggering, Wild West gait reinforces the man’s-gotta-do-what-a-man’s gotta do trope, familiar from Mann’s other work. But as the chase develops, so does the ambiguity in the portrayal of the two men: Graham leaves home, and virtually abandons his wife and son, just as Dollarhyde is glimpsing a life that might have been with Reba. Graham addresses a haunted, rainy reflection of himself in a window; Dollarhyde uses mirrors to see himself in the eyes of his victims. At least when the dust and ketchup has settled after a final confrontation in Dollarhyde’s kitchen, Graham has the answer to Reba’s question: “Who are you?”
A lot of fava beans and chianti have passed the lips of Hannibal Lecter since Manhunter first appeared on-screen with its muted colours and laden atmosphere. Other directors may have taken the serial killer sub-genre, and even the Lecter sub-sub-genre in different directions, but Mann’s vision remains unique, and even on repeated viewings, Manhunter has the ability to grip by the throat and create a sense of eerie unease that lingers after the credits.
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