In its first two seasons, Hannibal is a visually stunning, disturbing thriller with decent actors and an unnerving soundtrack. Ultimately, however, it relies too heavily on thin characterization to keep us guessing. Dr. Lecter is little more than a cultured manipulator who plays gruesome games out of boredom. I suppose we are meant to admire or fear him for his intellect and artistry, but the thrill he seems to glean from outwitting the dimwitted is simply childish, and his cannibalism is an obvious metaphor for the insatiable appetite and savagery that (ironically) enslave him, despite his highbrow pretensions. Criminal profiler Will Graham should see through Dr. Lecter instantly and have the upper hand simply because his imagination frees him from the need to actually kill anyone. Instead, the writers keep Will in a perpetual state of instability, as if his empathy and asocial tendencies automatically compromise his sanity when, realistically, he would be least susceptible to Hannibal's machinations.

Corpses form elegant tableaux for Will to interpret, and when, having entered the mind of the killer and reimagined his actions firsthand, he concludes, "This is my design," the butcher has become an architect worthy of Will's consideration, if not ours. All of this seems to distract us from the realization that profiling criminals is not crossing any moral line. Will's efforts to help the FBI catch each culprit are actually selfless, but we see a parade of judgmental, morally compromised characters convince him otherwise. In the end, I am not sure what actually motivates anyone other than a script that casually sacrifices its most sympathetic characters for a plot drowned in infinite death and gloom. Anyone clinging to reality or their own sanity might question why serial killers with artistic inclinations abound or why law enforcement must engage in elaborate, soul- crushing exercises to catch irredeemable monsters. The rest of the audience is too struck by two attractive men in the same room to interpret Hannibal and Will's exchanges as anything but foreplay. For the less imaginative, watching Hannibal is not a pleasant experience.

The directors, writers, actors, and producers deserve credit for bringing such a nightmare to network television. They have managed to trump Thomas Harris' novel of the same name, which is possibly the vilest piece of fiction I have ever read. I am not sure whether that achievement is praiseworthy, but I may lack the masochism needed to keep watching.