RED DRAGON Screenplay by Ted Tally Based on the novel Red Dragon by Thomas Harris FADE IN: INT. CONCERT HALL. NIGHT. On a brilliantly lit stage, the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra is struggling through the 3rd movement of Boccherini's Concerto in D Major ("Allegro piacere.") At center, a CELLO SOLOST. SUPER TITLE: BALTIMORE, MD. 1986. The CONDUCTOR frowns. Something's amiss in the wind section. As the SOLOIST nears the end of her passage, he jabs his baton with grim emphasis, indicating the winds' next entrance. THREE of the FOUR FLAUTISTS, instruments already poised by their lips, come in precisely on cue. But the... FOURTH FLAUTIST is daydreaming. Catching himself with a start, he lifts his flute, but now is hopelessly off the beat. He eyes his fellow players, hoping no one noticed. WE BACK AWAY FROM THE STAGE, wafting out with the MUSIC, PASSING OVER velvet seats, carpeted aisles, a stir of programs, WELL-DRESSED CONCERTGOERS...PASSING BY, without pause, one especially discerning face, a few moments later, for a CLOSER LOOK. HANNIBAL LECTER, M.D. - noted psychiatrist, arts patron, connoisseur - is trim, very neat, with a quality of coiled stillness. His eyes are blue, strangely pale. CLOSER on him, CLOSER STILL, until... The Fourth Flautist comes in late, yet again. From Lecter's hyper-acute perspective, the hapless man's playing is physically excruciating, like a nail scoring glass. Lecter's eyelids close, ever so briefly, in distaste. When they reopen, the pale irises are as fixed as a hawk's. LECTER (V.O.) "Think to yourself that every day is your last;..." An elegant Georgian home, red brick, on a cobblestoned street. Lights glow warmly through its windows. LECTER (V.O.) "...the hour to which you do not look forward will come as a welcome surprise..." INT. DINING ROOM. LECTER'S TOWNHOUSE. NIGHT. A candlelit table, exquisitely set. Around this are seated the ten very cultured MEMBERS OF THE SYMPHONY BOARD. Lecter circles the table, pouring wine for his guests. LECTER "...As for me, when you want a good laugh, you will find me, in a fine state, fat and sleek, a true hog of Epicurus' herd." Laughter at this, plus some mock-distressed "ooohs." RED BOW TIE And we find you cribbing lines from Horace, as well. Pleasant laughter. The Doctor smiles politely: touché. RED BOW TIE (CONT'D) I must say, Hannibal, speaking for the rest of the herd - (the others laugh) I'm sorry, for the Symphony Board - (more laughter) - that these little soirees of yours are always the highlight of our year. OTHER VOICES Just so. Hear hear. Bravo! LECTER You're too kind. Reverend - more Montrachet? REVEREND Yes, please. It's drinking nicely. TROPHY WIFE I do feel a bit guilty, enjoying such a lovely evening while one of our musicians is still listed as a missing person. Grave frowns at this, polite murmurs of concern. TWEEDY BANKER Yes, poor fellow. Sad thing. RED BOW TIE Shall I confess something wicked? I can't help feeling just the tiniest bit - well, relieved. That sounds awful, I know. But let's face it. So does the man's playing. CHAIRWOMAN His family's given a fortune to the endowment. It would've been almost impossible to fire him. BLUFF CEO Oh, he'll turn up somewhere. Count on it. TWEEDY BANKER He's probably not missing at all. Just late again. Chuckles, laughter, one of two happy groans. CHAIRWOMAN Hannibal, confess. What is this divine-looking amuse-bouche? LECTER If I tell you, I'm afraid you won't try it. More chuckles, hearty laughter. Taking his seat at the head of the table, Lecter snaps loose his napkins. Looking around at his eager, expectant guests, he smiles. LECTER (CONT'D) Bon appetit. INT. DINING ROOM. LECTER'S TOWNHOUSE. NIGHT. Lecter, now in a cashmere cardigan, clears the dessert and coffee plates off the dining room table. We hear the doorbell ring. Lecter considers this. Looks down at his stack of dishes, then turns, heads towards the door. INT./EXT. FRONT DOOR. NIGHT. His opening front door reveals a man in a dark overcoat and scarf, his breath steaming in the cold. WILL GRAHAM is pale, with dark watchful eyes. He's exhausted and never got a chance to shave this morning. LECTER Special Agent Graham. What an unexpected pleasure. GRAHAM Sorry to bother you again, Doctor. I know it's late. LECTER No bother. We're both night owns, I think. Come in, please. Let me take your coat. As Graham enters, he passes a brass plaque that reads "HANNIBAL LECTER, M.D. / Psychiatric Consultations." INT. LECTER'S STUDY. NIGHT. A handsome paneled room, decorated with primitive art, fragments of Greek sculpture, many books. To one side is a leather chaise. A fire blazes, its light flickering over the men's faces. Lecter watches as Graham paces restlessly. LECTER You look tired, Will. You ought to get more sleep. Under his navy jacket, we catch a glimpse of Graham's shoulder holster and Bulldog .44 Special. He gestures irritably. GRAHAM I'll sleep after this bastard is behind bars. LECTER You're part of a three hundred man task force. No one expects you to catch him all by yourself. Have a seat, Will. Graham drops into a chair. Lecter, who's been waiting politely, sits behind his desk. Graham leans forward urgently. Despite his weariness, his face is alive with fierce excitement. GRAHAM We've been on the wrong track this whole time, Doctor. You and I. Our whole profile is wrong. Lecter is very still; there is not a flicker of emotion; he just watches Graham, like someone studying an insect. GRAHAM (CONT'D) We've been looking for somebody with a crazy grudge. Some kind of anatomical knowledge, decertified doctors, med school dropouts, laid-off mortuary workers - LECTER From the precision of the cuts, yes. And his choice of - souvenirs. GRAHAM But that's where we're off target. He's not collecting body parts. LECTER Then why keep them? GRAHAM He's not keeping them. He's eating them. Lecter just watches and listens. GRAHAM (CONT'D) We were at Molly's parents' for New Year's. Her dad was showing Josh how to carve a roasted chicken. And he said to my son, "The tenderest part of a chicken is the oysters, here, on either side of the back." I'd never heard that expression before. "Oysters." Pause. GRAHAM (CONT'D) I had a sudden flash of the third victim, Darcy Chambers. She was missing flesh from her back. And then it hit me... Liver. Kidneys. Tongue. Thymus. Every single victim lost some body part used in cooking. Everything is very quite in the room. After a moment's consideration, Lecter slowly leans forward on his desk. He gently touches the Venetian stiletto, and lines it up with his blotter. LECTER Have you shared this with the Bureau, Will? GRAHAM I needed to see you first. But I'm right. I know I'm right. Somehow I'm starting to be able to think like this guy. LECTER And how does that make you feel? GRAHAM It's unpleasant. It frightens me a little. LECTER Why? GRAHAM Because it's not scientific, it's emotional. LECTER (pause) Fascinating. I'd always suspected as much. You're an eidetaker. (Graham is puzzled) Someone with a remarkable visual memory. Combined, in your case, with pure empathy. That's quite rare... How I'd love to get you on my couch. GRAHAM I'm not psychic, Doctor. LECTER No, no, this is different. More akin to artistic imagination. You're able to assume the emotional point of view of other people - even those that might scare or sicken you... A troubling gift, I should think. Perception's a tool that's pointed at both ends. GRAHAM Maybe that sounds right, but it still doesn't make sense to me. You're the best forensic psychiatrist I know. And yet somehow, in all our time together, this possibility never occurred to you. A quite moment, the two of them staring at each other. LECTER I'm only human, Will. Perhaps I've made a mistake. GRAHAM You don't strike me as a man who makes very many. LECTER I'm sorry to think I might no longer enjoy your full confidence. Lecter's eyes gleam in the firelight. Graham sighs. GRAHAM I didn't say that. I don't know what I'm saying. I almost had it... I'm very tired. LECTER It'll come to you. Look. Why don't you come back in the morning? I'll clear some time off my schedule, and we'll get started on revising our profile. Sound good? Graham hesitates, then nods wearily. Lecter smiles. LECTER (CONT'D) You rest here, then. I'll get your coat. Won't be a tick. Lecter goes out. After a moment Graham rises, stretches his back. As he waits, he turns, glancing idly around. Something on a shelf catches his eye. He moves closer. A Dogon tribal MASK, features contorted in rage or pain. Graham is a bit disturbed. Not his idea of art. His gaze wanders... A framed DAGUERREOTYPE of Edgar Allan Poe. A block of SHINY AMBER, with a SCORPION suspended inside. A beaded SIOUX QUIVER, with featured arrows still protruding. And BOOKS...so many books. Some leather-bound, with worn, cracked spines, and very old. Some much newer. Graham is interested. Looks closer at the titles... Recettes Des Provinces De France... La Cuisine du Sacrifice en Pays Grec... Larousse Gastronomique.?This last volume isn't pushed all the way back into place. And it has a red satin bookmark, noting a particular page. Graham pulls out the Larousse, opens it to the marked page. A recipe titled "Fantaisie de Ris de Veau." Beside which someone has written the word "Sweetbreads." Graham stares at this... VERY CLOSE ANGLE - "SWEETBREADS" - Just the single word, inked in a fine, elegant hand. Graham's eyes widen in a horrified leap of understanding. He drops the book, turning, already pulling his gun free, only to find himself... Face to face with Lecter, the pale eyes regarding him calmly. The Doctor's hand flicks out, quick as a striking snake. Graham gasps, looks down... The Venetian stiletto is buried to its hilt in his abdomen. Its handle is gripped by Lecter's right hand, while the Doctor's left hand now flashes up to seize Graham's gun, plucking it from his nerveless fingers. Lecter tosses the gun aside and Graham's hands fumble at the knife, trying to push it away. But Lecter is immensely strong and has him pinned against the bookcase. His face looms close beside Graham's as the younger man struggles, gasping in this obscene embrace. The Doctor's voice is calm, soothing. LECTER (CONT'D) Shh, shhh - don't move. You're in shock now. I don't want you to feel any pain. Graham writhes, though he's getting weaker by the moment. Lecter presses against him harder. Objects tumble from the shelves, SHATTER. The Doctor ignores the mess. LECTER (CONT'D) In a moment you'll begin to be lightheaded. Then drowsy. Don't resist. It's so gentle. Like slipping into a warm bath... Graham jerks against him. Cries out. LECTER (CONT'D) Shh, shh... I regret that it has came to this, Will. But every game must have its ending. Shh... Graham's eyes roll up. He's very close to passing out. LECTER (CONT'D) Remarkably boy. I do admire your courage. His lips are close to Graham's ear. A loving whisper. LECTER (CONT'D) I think I'll eat your heart. Graham's eyes glaze over. He goes limp. Lecter grips him in both arms a few moments longer, making sure he's still, then eases his body to the floor, where it slumps like a rag doll's. Graham's eyes stare sightlessly, unblinking. Lecter kneels. He leans over Graham, tilts his chin back, ready to slash his throat, when suddenly the Doctor himself emits a soft grunt. He looks down, surprised... Half a dozen Sioux arrows, gripped in Graham's bloody fist, have been punched into his abdomen. Graham's eyes re-focus, staring directing into his. His face - sweat-drenched, contorted with pain - is very close to Lecter's. GRAHAM (whispers) Eat that. Lecter rises, shocked, lurching backwards as he tried to pluck out the arrowheads. But they're deeply imbedded, and his stiletto interferes with his grip. Graham pulls a second gun, a small .38 revolver, from an ankle holster, aims unsteadily, squeezes the trigger. The BOOM of the explosions, in this small room, is deafening. NEW ANGLE - SLOW MOTION As most of the slugs miss, smashing into the walls, but at least one catches Lecter in the upper chest,?spinning him around, hurling him away. The Doctor topples over his desk, knocking the phone off, before coming to rest on the floor, on his side, unconscious. Graham, holding his spilling guts in with one hand, keeps squeezing the trigger even after his gun is empty. Finally his hand drops weakly, the gun CLATTERING on the floor. He stares at... Lecter's unmoving body. Graham, through his faintness, becomes aware of a strange new SOUND. Dully he turns his head... Lecter's phone is lying on the floor, its receiver uncradled, humming a DIAL TONE. Just a few feet away, but it seems like a mile... Graham grits his teeth, then, with a supreme effort, manages to topple slowly over in the direction of the phone. Very weakly he reaches out one bloody finger, smearing the "0" button. After a pause, we hear a voice. VOICE Operator. GRAHAM (whispers) Seventeen... Chandler's Square... Officer down... Help me... Please help me. His eyes roll up in his head. He faints... FADE TO: EXT. NEWSPAPER CLIPPINGS