Dried apricots, sliced gouda, prosciutto, water crackers. Over this past summer, my sister and I had begun a sort of tradition in preparing these small charcuterie boards, in service of our most recent ‘sister-bonding’ activity: watching our favorite cannibalistic serial killer use his affinity for manipulation to kill, cook, and consume a variety of human beings. All with a cup of freshly brewed Earl Grey tea, of course. This juxtaposition of activities may seem strange, but they are far from uncommon—whether it’s midnight showings of an alien axe-murderer with a penchant for singing, or scarfing down popcorn while watching frightening creatures commit violence— it seems the perception of such activities is skewed by one unifying factor. These activities don’t seem so outlandish when the alien axe murderer is from the Rocky Horror Picture Show, the frightening creatures are from The Conjuring, and the cannibalistic serial killer is named Hannibal Lecter. There seems to exist a certain suspension of moral values, one akin to the “suspension of disbelief,” when consuming fiction, raising questions about art’s broader moral purpose. After all, why is there more leniency towards moral atrocities when they are depicted in a film versus in a news article, and what could be the moral purpose of such works? The answer to this lies in the relationship between empathy, art, and morality– a subject matter that has been deliberated in many works of art, but is especially demonstrated in the character of Hannibal Lecter. As moral and psychological benefits of art become apparent in the exploration of Dr. Lecter, art’s ability to act as an influence on moral introspection, stands to constitute its moral purpose at large.
Understanding the relationship between art and morality begins with defining human empathy. Empathy– the understanding of other people’s emotions, which finds its expression in a range from sympathy to sadism— is described by researcher Fritz Breithaupt as being “deeply connected with two different domains: aesthetics and emotional development. Empathy intensifies our [aesthetic] experiences and widens the scope of our perceptions. . . This form of engagement can be described in terms of aesthetic experience and the deepening of our emotions” (Breithaupt). Breithaupt establishes that aesthetic experiences, such as art, have a different engagement with human empathy from “non-aesthetic” experiences. Moreover, this difference in engagement affects our perception of morality, which becomes altered by art in a manner that is unique from other influences, especially when narrowing the scope of “aesthetic experiences” to “fiction” (Breithaupt).
Kieran Matthews, a professor and philosopher of aesthetics, elaborates on this concept, by contrasting: a.) “genuine” emotions that result from empathy with “real world” events, with b.) “quasi” emotions resulting from empathy derived from “fictional” events. Matthews posits that “we respond to real-life events with genuine emotions but only with quasi‐emotions to fictional events. . . Perhaps the asymmetries can be explained by virtue of quasi‐emotions not being subject to the same constraints as genuine emotions since belief is constrained in ways in which the imagination is not” (Matthews). These “quasi-emotions” are most apparent in art that elicits an emotional response that would be different from that ascribed to a similar nonfiction event. The example that Matthews gives is the experience of a bar-fight, wherein one would feel anxiety, panic, and fear if confronted in the “real world,” but would feel excitement when witnessing a character on a TV show like The Sopranos engage in one. With this, “quasi-emotions” become increasingly bound to a scope wherein morality does not apply, allowing for human empathy to become detached from morality that it would otherwise inform.
This concept is arguably best demonstrated when in consideration of a morally contentious, yet empathetic subject matter —with a notable instance of this ‘archetype’ being the fictional psychiatrist-turned-cannibal, Hannibal Lecter. Hannibal Lecter originates from a thriller series written by Thomas Harris, wherein different accounts of murder cases are detailed, some involving Dr. Lecter directly as the culprit, and others where he acted as a consultant to the novels’ protagonists. Dr. Lecter has since had many adaptations, most notably in The Silence Of The Lambs– Jonathan Demme’s Oscar-winning film— and the NBC TV show Hannibal, a modernized adaptation of Hannibal Lecter’s backstory. Throughout adaptations, Dr. Lecter maintains a characterization that invokes empathy and evokes the “quasi-emotions” mentioned before— all in a manner unique from other serial killers within and outwards of The Silence Of The Lambs and Hannibal.
Demonstrated in both adaptations, Dr. Lecter becomes immediately established to the audience as having a history of killing people guiltlessly as a culinary activity— yet much of his characterization leans heavily into more endearing aspects. At the outset of The Silence of The Lambs, the audience witnesses Dr. Lecter’s politeness towards Clarice Starling, an FBI agent-in-training who interviews Lecter (who is imprisoned by the US government) on a case regarding another serial killer known as Buffalo Bill. Dr. Lecter is contrasted with others within The Silence Of The Lambs, as he displays a class, taste, wit, and artistry that Buffalo Bill, as well as Clarice’s own peers, seem to lack. As explained by Sonia Baelo-Allue, a lecturer in English culture, Dr. Lecter is “not treated as a monster in a classical sense. He is white, probably heterosexual, intelligent, had a liberal profession and is a gentleman. Sure, he is also a cannibal but he is extremely polite and tasteful, after all he used to eat his victims with aromatic herbs. . . Thus, Lecter is not presented as a savage bloodthirsty man but a selective high-class gourmet” (Allue). Dr. Lecter’s sketches of the Duomo, his affinity for the Goldberg Variations, and even his taste for human meat, are implied to be an extension of a refined and acquired taste, implemented to inspire “quasi-emotions” of intrigue and respect, which encourage the audiences to hold Dr. Lecter in higher regard.
While there are many factors distinguishing Dr. Lecter from other classic monsters, he is more elusively and sinisterly differentiated by an empathy-driven psychology, wherein the narrative “aim” of the initiated “quasi-emotions” becomes established. As Clarice gets mistreated and underestimated by prisoners in Lecter’s neighboring cells, and even her peers and supervisors, Dr. Lecter seems to be the only character who speaks to Clarice as an equal. He displays a great amount of empathy for Clarice’s struggles, and even the struggles of Buffalo Bill, which stems from a genuine understanding of their psychologies. This understanding prompts the audience to feel even more positively towards Dr. Lecter— once again, leading to “quasi-emotions” that arise from recognizing the trait of empathy in others, and most importantly, one that is brought about despite Dr. Lecter’s moral shortcomings. This is affirmed in a statement made by Bryan Fuller, the developer and director of the NBC Hannibal TV show, who offers insight into the audience experience, saying “[E]very moment consciously plays with the juxtaposition of gorgeousness and visceral terror with the effect, at times, of slowly luring the audience into a sense of being in collusion with Hannibal” (Logsdon). To put it briefly, while Fuller speaks to the NBC adaptation of Hannibal Lecter, it is no less applicable to Demme’s Dr. Lecter from The Silence Of The Lambs. Both raise the question of what the evocation of “quasi-emotions,” so much so it results in an experience of collusion with Dr. Lecter, achieves in a moral sense—ultimately bringing into question how “quasi-emotions” that act independently from an individual’s morality, affect art’s relationship with morality at large.
When discussing the scope of an individual’s relationship with morality, it becomes clear that “quasi-emotions” are what allow for a consideration of morality that is simply not possible outside of fiction. This very concept is deliberated on by John Milton—the writer of the epic poem Paradise Lost, and Vladimir Nabokov—the author of Lolita. John Milton, being a staunch activist against censorship law, championed “free speech” concerning controversial fiction, under the premise that the fictional portrayal of evil was necessary for the exercising of good moral judgment. In his pamphlet Areopagitica, he claims that “Since therefore the knowledge and survey of vice is in this world so necessary to the constituting of human virtue, and the scanning of error to the confirmation of truth, how can we more safely, and with less danger, scout into the regions of sin and falsity than by reading all manner of tractates, and hearing all manner of reason?” (Milton). Milton alludes to written works, including fiction, as being the only “harmless” way of proving human virtue, and that an imaginative landscape built and supported by “quasi-emotions” ultimately leads to fiction being the safest way to practice judgment.
Nabokov alludes to a similar idea, in which, “he states in one great passage of his memoir his belief . . . that goodness is a function and agency of love permeating the universe, and that an artist seeks to discover it, find the right expression for it, and impart it” (Rodgers and Sweeney). Nabokov’s statement offers a nuance that builds on the view of fiction as an exercise of morality, incorporating the idea of “discovery.” While Milton speaks to morality and art from an audience’s perspective— stating that it is the audience’s responsibility to consume art that further develops judgment, Nabokov’s statement directly alludes to the artist, wherein art should be created with the intent for moral discovery. This “discovery” applies to the individual as well, as Breithaupt would establish with the literary term “anagnorisis,” saying “Although anagnorisis is a literary effect, it may reveal a common, everyday experience in which we similarly see events unfold from multiple perspectives; we act and we reflect on how we are seen by others in those situations” (Breithaupt). Breithaupt refers to “anagnorisis” as stemming from in-person experience, but this concept can be applied to Milton and Nabokov’s philosophy; in the concern for an individual’s morality, there are self-discoveries concerning morality that can be made from art, resulting in the “anagnorisis” detailed by Breithaupt.
Once again, while these concepts are prominent throughout all art, they are most explicitly shown when an artwork provides a unique moral insight, harkening back to how “anagnorisis” applies to Dr. Lecter, and circling back to the critical question: what exactly is the moral lesson gleaned from engaging in sympathy for a serial killer? While “anagnorisis” varies from individual to individual, in further deliberation of The Silence of The Lambs, there are a few unique takeaways, most visible in the interactions between Dr. Lecter and Clarice Starling. As Dr. Lecter prods Clarice with personal questions, he reveals a tactical yet gentle inquiry on differing aspects of her life. From her Southern roots to the titular moment Clarice reveals deep-set trauma relating to her family’s livestock, Clarice, Dr. Lecter, and the audience continuously learn of Clarice’s past, while also bearing witness to Dr. Lecter’s enormous empathy and emotional intelligence first-hand.
While this emotional intelligence is beneficial to the FBI, it becomes clear that it is also what makes him a killer. Dr. Lecter’s empathy-driven murders are what distinguishes him from other fictional killers, and what leads to a unique moral discovery. When one thinks of a serial killer, simply put, “empathetic” is a rare descriptor. From Patrick Bateman to the Joker, fictional killers are often depicted as either entirely unfeeling or wholly sadistic; rarely is a killer understanding of the emotional intricacies within others. There is indeed “anagnorisis” to be found when examining Dr. Lecter’s empathy— especially in examining how his knack for understanding the psyches of others leads the audience to feel as though his murders are at odds with his nature—as if his empathy conflicts with his cannibalistic tendencies.
This points exactly to the purpose of art, as outlined by Milton and Nabokov, in which moral discoveries lead to a more informed and exercised person, especially regarding unusual, less-explored subject matters and ideas. In the case of Dr. Lecter, the perspective that empathy and cruelty are not mutually exclusive is presented through this character, and a new perspective on the relationship between these can be gleaned. This is the “anagnorisis” that Hannibal Lecter instills: the realization that cruel people can be highly empathetic— that both those who are unfeeling and truly understanding are capable of barbarity. The audience firstly assumes that Dr. Lecter’s empathy and murderous tendencies are despite each other, a result of empathy and cruelty’s relationship being rarely depicted, with this eventually leading to the audience’s own sense of empathy becoming morally questioned. Thomas Harris himself intended for Dr. Lecter, “to allow both detectives and reader to confront ‘their own inner demons,’ on which he “depend[ed] upon ‘the fascination we feel with all serial killers, the unnerving realization that this character is the monster that we could become’” (Logsdon). This exploration of empathy and morality allows the audience to re-evaluate their own perception of empathy, within not only others but within themselves —bringing forth and supporting other moments of “anagnorisis” that are presented through Dr. Lecter.
Using Dr. Lecter as an example, the journey from “quasi-emotions” to achieving “anagnorisis,” and how art results in moral development, is made apparent. The lens of fiction allows us to examine morality by way of interacting with a serial killer, an alien axe-murderer, or even a demon, from which we apply those moral discoveries made within fiction to the real world. This “anagnorisis” differs from individual to individual—I myself, have become more and more fascinated by Dr. Lecter’s relationship with the US government, in which I issue doubts against an institution that benefits and is, indeed, reliant on those it deems unfit to live with others. These sorts of discoveries are what define fiction’s impact on the “real world,” giving it the moral purpose of allowing for these discoveries to flourish. Just as Clarice learns more about herself through her interactions with Dr. Lecter, fiction’s unique “quasi-emotions” allow for a unique perspective of morality, allowing us to discover more about our own morality by way of learning from the empathy-driven, eloquently speaking cannibal within.
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