It has been 13 years since Thomas Harris published a novel, and the last time he published one without Hannibal Lecter in it was 1974. So, ‘hotly anticipated’ is probably the phrase. The good news for readers of Cari Mora is that Hannibal is here in spirit if not in person. This is a very peculiar book, lavishly ridiculous in almost every respect and fully committed to the gothic extremes of human cruelty: just camp enough to skirt charges of outright porno-sadism.
Sounds like fun, right? Well, it is. But, as I say, it’s also mad as a badger. The way I found myself describing it to a friend is as Dr Fischer of Geneva retold by Carl Hiaasen and shot by Tobe Hooper. A character with a walk-on part eats a human kidney, for instance, just because it’s there. There are decapitations, multiple dismemberments and brains dripping off ceilings. Also, a certain amount of lyrical stuff about manatees and seabirds, and some comic business with a foul-mouthed cockatoo.
The titular heroine is a smoking-hot Latina girl (being smoking hot is a, if not the, most important part of her characterisation; everybody in the book fancies her), who also happens to have been trained and traumatised by FARC guerrillas as a young girl, so is handy with an automatic weapon.
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