A very loyal, by-the-numbers adaptation of the first Hannibal Lecter novel, strangely saved for last in the Anthony Hopkins trilogy. It's about as direct a cut from page to screen as I've seen, which is refreshing, but something about the mood doesn't feel right. This is more of a procedural thriller than a psychological one, and that's fine if the screenplay is able to adjust appropriately. Instead, it keeps trying to push both sets of buttons, which makes this feel like two different movies under the same marquee.

The lead casting is regrettable - Ed Norton feels flat and babyfaced as troubled ex-detective Will Graham and Harvey Keitel is terribly misplaced as Jack Crawford, his stiff supervisor - and even the more dependable act isn't completely up to snuff. Hopkins is a mild disappointment in his final turn as Lecter, over-enhancing many of the nuances that had always made him so harrowing in the role, and it's a reach to buy this as a prequel when he's so visibly aged in the interim. Ralph Fiennes is excellent as the madman Francis Dolarhyde, though, and Philip Seymour Hoffman nails his small role as a smarmy, mouth-breathing tabloid reporter.

The film is mostly played for fan service, honestly, and at that it's generally very successful. It's far from essential, though, which is a shame. This could've been so much more with a better director and a few alternate casting decisions.