Several years ago at the Virginia Film Festival, they are screening Silence of the Lambs, with a special appearance by Sir Anthony Hopkins. I don’t have a ticket, but I show up and stand in line on the chance of getting an unclaimed seat.
I luck out and manage to get in. But it’s only a few moments before showtime and the theater is already packed. The only empty seats are in the very back or the very front. “Hell,” I say to myself. “I’m going to sit in the front row.”
My seat, fronting right on the stage, is so close that within seconds I can already feel a crick forming in my neck. But then Sir Anthony walks out, and I find myself sitting right at his feet, eye level with his shoelaces, as he introduces the movie. He seems soft-spoken and a little embarrassed by all the fuss. He doesn’t say much apart from thanking us for coming and he hopes we enjoy the film.
But then, just as he turns to leave the stage, a strange little glee seems to come into his eyes. Like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, right before our eyes he transforms for a brief second into Hannibal Lecter and delivers one of the most famous horror movie lines ever spoken, that one about eating the guy’s liver with a nice Chianti. I’m sitting so close I almost think that I can feel the gentle spray of Sir Anthony’s saliva as he intones “fava beans.”
There’s no time to shake off the disturbing moment. The mist is still settling as the lights come down and the film rolls.
I don’t think I’ve been so spooked since that trip to England when on a lark I signed up for the “Jack the Ripper Walking Tour,” then afterwards had to make my way back to my hotel by myself through the dark, deserted streets of London. Creep-o-rama.
