If you've ever thought Masterchef would look really good if it were desaturated, filmed in the rain and the surprise ingredients for the invention test were human giblets and some glistening truffle paste, then it's time you binged on the exquisite Hannibal.
The blood-drenched series follows the perpetually jaw-clenching Will Graham (Hugh Dancy) on the trail of the serial killer responsible for some particularly gruesome, not to mention inventive, murders. To make sure Will isn't struggling with the psychological strain of his task, which involves an uncanny gift to place himself in the mind of a murderer, the FBI assigns him a psychiatrist, Dr Lecter. From thereon in, everyone in the cast becomes a sort of ambulatory buffet.
Those who still have Anthony Hopkins's performance firmly in mind should abandon it immediately for the sake of enjoying this series' more subtle reimagining. Mads Mikkelsen's Hannibal is a forlorn observer, almost inquisitive, as if he's from another planet. An iHuman in a cravat; there's no breathy slurping through the teeth here. The effect, however, is no less terrifying: Hannibal isn't a caged horror, but a practising psychiatrist working within law enforcement, free to pull the strings with all the serene relish of a people-eating Rembrandt.
Like the titular character, the show enjoys the lavish and artistic. Every shot is a visual degustation and every murder in the series is gruesome yet visually arresting; a bit like when people make flowers out of a piece of carrot, only here someone has made a violin out of someone's throat.
The gore surrounding each victim's demise is countered by the beauty of Hannibal's gastronomic displays. It's actually conflicting: I definitely know he's eating people, but you have to give him full marks for presentation – everything looks utterly delicious. A few episodes in, I found myself eyeing up my own legs wondering if, cobbled together with some rosemary and wrapped in strips of my own arm-bacon, I might conjure the best goddamn thing I've ever eaten. Seriously, try watching the first season without wanting to eat yourself and your friends. What are they doing anyway? Posting pictures of themselves all over the internet? Narcissistic little hamburgers.
For me, the only weak link in the series is the FBI's Jack Crawford, played with constant bewilderment by Laurence Fishburne. The performance is terrific, but it's hard to suspend disbelief that the head of a behavioural science unit would consistently believe that he's definitely figured out who the Chesapeake Ripper is "this time". Furthermore, Dr Lecter often monologues in front of his own handiwork as to what the killer's motives were, and yet no one wonders how on earth he could know. "Yes, the killer definitely stapled the victim's eyelids to this bicycle seat as a message, and that message is that an artist's work is never complete… I mean… aaah…. ummm… yeah, he was probably just a complete loony."
Disregarding the entire FBI's complete ineptitude, this is nevertheless a sumptuously shot work of art, made all the more enjoyable by Graham's nail-biting mental deterioration and Hannibal's calm, yet disturbing puppet mastery. Not so much an alternative to watching to the World Cup as an obligation.
