Hannibal Rising, A Novel by Thomas Harris, 2007

From the bestselling author of The Silence of the Lambs and Red Dragon comes an utter peice of drivel. It is so very rare that a movie is better than the book and in this case, I would say don’t even bother with the book. Harris seems to have grown complacent with his Hannibal Lector enterprise and now only seems to write extended versions of the screenplay-to-be. So very disheartening that such a talented writer who produced such terrifying and tautly written peices of literature has stooped to this pathetic level.

Even the third book in the Hannibal series, so cleverly entitled Hannibal, was a really good book. Grotesque, eerie and haunting in the same way as the others, something the film version completely missed in its superficial portrayal of the story on film. Hannibal Rising was one of the biggest disappointments I have read in years, and I honestly wish I had spent the money from the book on getting the DVD in its stead. The only reason I even finished the book was because I was hoping beyond hope that there would be stories and horrors above and beyond what was shown in the movie. I mean, why else does one read about Hannibal Lector’s adventures?

There were hardly any of young Hannibal’s internal monologues: His character came off flat and lifeless, something that we all know Hannibal is far from being. The rest of the characters were erratic and confusing, with names you could only keep track of and visualise if you had seen the film. The descriptions were mediocre at best, and lacking everywhere else.

Hannibal Rising is an utter waste of time. I absolutely hate to say it but the film is far more textured, far better written, and a far more interesting story than the novel that supposedly birthed it. If Hannibal Lector were to read this woefully inept tale, surely he would be having this old friend for dinner.