An Open Letter to “Hannibal”

Hey, boo. How you been? I know we just saw each other last night, but I was thinking about you and thought… oh, what the hell – I’ll write you a letter. I thought it might appeal to your traditional European tastes. (No pun intended!)

Here’s the thing: I think I love you. I know, I know – it’s crazy. I mean, I’m married, and you’re… vaguely German-sounding. And we’ve only been seeing one another – what, three weeks now?! It’s totally irrational. Some might even call it “crazy”. But I’ll leave the professional diagnosis up to you, Doctor Love. ;)

I’ve just been relaxing today in the afterglow of last night’s marathon session on the couch – sitting in the basement making paper mache jawbones and listening to old Wings records – but I can’t seem to get you out of my head.

I don’t know what it is that captivates me most about you, my darling. Maybe its your scratchy-wool-sweater score, which makes it seem like the cast is perpetually at risk of being swarmed by wasps. Maybe it’s your supersaturated colors and love of overcast days, verdant underbrush, and rust. Maybe it’s Hugh Dancy‘s twitchy take on the lovechild of Sherlock Holmes and Carrie White (or maybe it’s just the fact that his name is honest-to-God “Hugh Dancy”). Maybe it’s the inspired casting of Scott Thompson as a bitchy, deadpan FBI forensics expert.

Or maybe it’s just the fact that you’re not The Following.

I love your angst. I love your constant fever pitch of existential despair. I love that you are a dead ringer for Rango:

I love that you threw a pesky Curly Sue of a tabloid reporter into the mix for no reason whatsoever and continue to insist that she is an actual character that we are expected to take seriously. I love that your characters can teleport from Maryland to Minnesota at a moment’s notice. I love that you love your CGI deer more than Lawrence Fishburn, as evidenced by the fact that you give them more flattering lighting.

But more than anything, I love you because you actually freak the living shit out of me. Only you regularly feature scenes of characters cooking and serving other people to unknowing dinner guests. Only you have the bloody balls to have a terrified, traumatized girl realize that her throw pillows are filled with human hair. And only you know me well enough to combine two of the things I find most repellant: being buried alive and mushrooms. (Had there been an eggplant or bare feet nearby, I would have needed professional help.)

So what’s it gonna be, Doctor? Are we gonna take this thing to the next level, or are you gonna burn out like all my other recent lovers (The Following, spunky-but-doomed Cult, back-alley abortion Hemlock Grove)? Because if you are, maybe we should just break out the fava beans now and get this over with.

With all the love in my tasty little heart,


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Buzz created in 2003 to meet a need for a safe place for weirdos of all stripes to discuss horror movies from a queer perspective. Now that the campers have overtaken the Camp staff and locked them in the Arts & Crafts cabin he is questioning that decision.