The Misery of the Red Dragon
(originally ranted in 2003)

In case you haven't guessed, I'm a HUGE movie buff. I would have loved to have been a movie critic, but I would hate to limit myself to only being critical of movies.

My Mom and I haggle all the time over my taste in movies. I must admit, I do lose my witnessing power when I'm standing in line at Blockbuster with my copies of The Cell and Fight Club. Yes, I'm a Christian, and yes, I love twisted and wrong movies. It's a paradox, I know.

I love weird books too. I was a Criminology major, and it was my first love. I knew more about serial killers than anyone I've ever met. Since I'm not in my dream profession of being Jeffrey Dahmer's primary caretaker, I try to stay in touch with my murderous pals by reading up. Of course, I've discovered that I get WAY too obsessive when I read true crime books, so I pretty much stick to fiction now. Well, you can imagine my glee when Thomas Harris finally came out with Hannibal.

I snatched up my copy of Hannibal and went through it twice. It was a fantastic book. He is an incredible author. He is so descriptive, and his character development is very cleverly written. All through the book, I imagined each scene in vivid detail. My mental Super 8 was on overdrive. And though I still pictured Hopkins as Hannibal, the other characters were my own images, and the rooms they stood in were brilliantly decorated with my grey matter. In the Studiolo in my head, I carefully hung ornate paintings and gave every attention to the two foot molding that lined the ceiling, dividing it into quadrants. The fabric on the chairs was a delicate burgundy silk, subtly spun with deep shades of amber, emerald, and gold. The podium was a rich maple, gilt in gold ormolu. The multi-paned windows stretched from floor to molding. There were no drapes, because when would you ever want to draw the curtains on the ancient city below?

And now Hannibal is going to be a damn movie. And I knew it would be. And I'll go see it. And I'll be disappointed. There's no way it can live up to the movie in my head, even with Ridley Scott at the helm and Gary Oldman playing Mason Verger.

It's just like when I saw Misery. It was a good movie. Kathy Bates did a bang up job. And James Caan? Well, it was no Rollerball, but he did well. But the problem was, regardless of King's description of her, I had chosen to make her a fat black woman who wore a wig and a pale blue poly-knit nurse-type outfit. I went through the entire book with her like that. She was my character. I made her. And I will always prefer her to Kathy Bates. But now I'm ruined. If I go back and try to read the book again, my character is dead. I'll picture Kathy Bates.

They (and you know who THEY are) say that we only use 10% of our brain. Gee, I wonder why. We're a Cliff's Notes nation, refusing to read the Iliad, and opting to see the movie rather than actually read Wuthering Heights. How sad. And what's the biggest movie memorabilia seller? Original screenplays. DO YOU SEE THAT IRONY???

I could say more, but I just rented the 400th remake of Hamlet.