Silence of the Lambs Script
FADE IN:
INT. GRUBBY HOTEL CORRIDOR - DAY (DIMLY LIT)
A woman’s face BACKS INTO SHOT, her head resting against
grimy wallpaper. She is tense, sweaty, wide-eyed with
concentration. This is CLARICE STARLING, mid-20’s, trim,
very pretty. She wears Kevlar body armor over a navy
windbreaker, khaki pants. Her thick hair is piled under a
navy baseball cap. A revolver, clutched in her right hand,
hovers by her ear. She raises a speedloader, in her left
hand, locks it into her cylinder, twists and reloads.
CLOSE ON
A guest room door, with a small, wired pack attached to its
knob. Suddenly, wish a sharp CRACK!, the knob explodes, and
the door bursts open.
WITH CLARICE - MOVING SHOT
as she runs around a corner, through a cloud of smoke. She
shoulders aside the shattered door and rushes inside, gun at
the ready in both hands...
CUT TO:
INT. HOTEL ROOM - DAY
CLARICE’S POV - MOVING - as she first sees, sitting on the
edge of a bed - a FEMALE HOSTAGE. Black, late 20’s, gagged,
hands behind her back. Then, SWIVELLING... she sees a startled
MALE SUSPECT, white, mid-20’s, standing by a window with a
rifle in his hands. He is turning towards her...
Clarice drops into a combat crouch, gun extended, and shouts.
CLARICE
Freeze! FBI!
CLARICE’S POV - SLOW MOTION
all natural SOUND suspended - as the Suspect faces her with
a strange, pleading expression. The rifle is rising in his
hands, but oddly enough, it is held across his chest, not
pointing. Then another puzzling detail registers...
THE SUSPECT’S HANDS
are taped to his gun, away from the trigger; he couldn’t use
it even if he tried. Suddenly we hear a metallic CLICK, which
registers with unnatural amplification, as - Clarice reacts,
drops to the floor, rolling sideways, and -
THE "HOSTAGE"
pulls a revolver out from behind her back, still in SLOW
MOTION, raising it in her untied hands. She fires repeatedly,
flames leaping from the muzzle; the SOUND is an echoing roar
in these close quarters, but -
Clarice has come up on one knee, beside an armchair, and is
already firing back herself, two quick SHOTS, which send -
THE "HOSTAGE"
pitching over the bed, backwards, to shudder and lie still
in a haze of gunsmoke. Clarice rushes to her, clamping one
knee down on her gun hand, still keeping her covered in case
of movement. HOLD for a few beats... then we hear the shrill
blast of a WHISTLE from somewhere, off screen, as normal
ACTION and SOUND are restored.
BRIGHAM (O.S.)
Okay, people, good exercise...
Clarice relaxes, lowering her gun. The lights brighten.
PULLING BACK
we see that we’re in some sort of auditorium, with the "hotel
room" and its "corridor" built as a training set. JOHN BRIGHAM
walks onto this set, thumbing a stopwatch. Mid-40’s, ex-
Marine. His T-shirt’s lettering says "Firearms Instructor /
FBI Academy."
BRIGHAM
Starling’s reaction time was
excellent. Let’s break. Critique in
five.
A class of about forty young FBI trainees, of both sexes,
begins to rise from their seats, mingling and chatting.
Clarice nods amiably to the "Suspect", then gives her
"Hostage" a hand up. It’s ARDELIA MAPP, her roommate. Her
broad, clever face breaks into a big smile, as they both
remove ear plugs. Clarice’s voice has just a soft trace of
southern accent.
ARDELIA
Damn, Clarice, how’d you make me?
CLARICE
(indicating her gun)
Never cock. Just squeeze.
ARDELIA
(grins)
I love it when you talk dirty.
As Brigham joins them, Clarice can’t resist a star pupil’s
little smile of pride. He frowns good-naturedly.
BRIGHAM
What’re you laughin’ at, Junior G-
Man? She got off four rounds to your
two.
He takes out a steel-coiled grip flexer, drops it onto her
palm.
BRIGHAM
(continuing)
One hundred reps, each hand, every
day. Now tidy up, the Section Chief
wants to see you.
He nods a direction, then moves off. Clarice, with her smile
finally fading, looks out into the auditorium.
SPECIAL AGENT JACK CRAWFORD
sits on the top step of the aisle, looking down at her. He
is 53, strongly built. He rises impassively, exits through
the back door. He carries a think manila envelope under one
arm.
Ardelia who is helping Clarice unbuckle her bullet-proof
vest, follows her worried gaze.
CLARICE
What’d I do?
ARDELIA
Stay cool. Just remember to call him
"God."
CUT TO:
EXT. FBI ACADEMY GROUNDS, QUANTICO, VIRGINIA - DAY
Crawford is watching a group of trainees on the firing range,
as Clarice joins him. He looks tired, haunted. Between master
and student, we sense a subtle, muted tug of sexuality.
CRAWFORD
Starling, Clarice M., good morning.
CLARICE
Good morning, Mr. Crawford.
CRAWFORD
Your instructors tell me you’re doing
well. Top quarter of the class.
CLARICE
I hope so. They haven’t posted
anything.
CRAWFORD
A job’s come up and I thought about
you. Not really a job, more of - an
interesting errand. Walk me to my
car, Starling.
They begin to cross the academy grounds. A group of trainees
jogs by, in matching sweats, following a p.e. coach.
CRAWFORD
We’re trying to interview all of the
serial killers now in custody, for a
psychobehavioral profile. Could be a
big help in unsolved cases. Most of
them have been happy to talk to us.
They have a compulsion to boast,
these people... Do you spook easily,
Starling?
CLARICE
Not yet.
CRAWFORD
You see, the one we want most refuses
to cooperate. I want you to go after
him again today, in the asylum.
CLARICE
Who’s the subject?
CRAWFORD
The psychiatrist - Dr. Hannibal
Lecter.
Clarice stops walking, goes very still. A beat.
CLARICE
The cannibal...
Crawford doesn’t respond, except to study her face.
CLARICE
Yes, well... Okay, right. I’m glad
for the chance, sir, but - why me?
CRAWFORD
You’re qualified and available. And
frankly, I can’t spare a real agent
right now.
He walks on again, at a faster clip. She hurried to keep up.
CRAWFORD
I don’t expect him to talk to you,
but I have to be able to say we
tried... Lecter was a brilliant
psychiatrist, and he knows all the
dodges.
(hands her the manila
envelope)
Dossier on him, copy of our
questionnaire, special ID for you...
If he won’t talk, then I want straight
reporting. How’s he look, how’s his
cell look, what’s he writing? The
Director himself will see your report,
over your own signature - if I decide
it’s good enough. I want that by
0800 Wednesday, and keep this to
yourself.
They’re reached his car. His driver stamps on a cigarette,
climbs in behind the wheel. BURROUGHS, his assistant, says
something into a walkie-talkie, then opens the back door.
But Crawford pulls her aside, a hand on her shoulder. His
intensity is scary.
CRAWFORD
Now. I want your full attention,
Starling. Are you listening to me?
CLARICE
Yes sir.
CRAWFORD
Be very careful with Hannibal Lecter.
Dr. Chilton at the asylum will go
over the physical procedures used
with him. Do not deviate from them,
for any reason. You tell him nothing
personal, Starling. Believe me, you
don’t want Hannibal Lecter inside
your head... Just do your job, but
never forget what he is.
CLARICE
(a bit unnerved)
And what is that, sir?
CHILTON (V.O.)
Oh, he’s a monster. A pure
psychopath...
CUT TO:
INT. CHILTON’S OFFICE - BALTIMORE STATE HOSPITAL FOR THE
CRIMINALLY INSANE - DAY
CLOSE ON an ID card held in a male hand. Clarice’s photo,
official-looking graphics. It calls her a "Federal
Investigator."
CHILTON (O.S.)
It’s so rare to capture one alive.
From a research point of view, Dr.
Lecter is our most prized asset...
DR. FREDERICK CHILTON looks up from her card. A smarmy little
peacock, behind a vast desk; he’s conceived an instant,
hopeless letch for Clarice. He smiles, stroking her card
with his beloved gold pen.
CHILTON
You know, we get a lot of detectives
here, but I must say, I can’t ever
remember one so attractive...
NEW ANGLE - REVEALS CLARICE
now wearing a more feminine skirt suit. Hair neatly coiled,
elegant shoulder bag, briefcase. He has rudely left her
standing.
CHILTON
Will you be in Baltimore overnight...?
Because this can be quite a fun town,
if you have the right guide.
Clarice tries, unsuccessfully, to hide her distaste for him.
CLARICE
I’m sure it’s a great town, Dr.
Chilton, but my instructions are to
talk to Lecter and report back this
afternoon.
CHILTON
(pause, sourly)
I see.
(beat)
Let’s make this quick, then. I’m
busy.
CUT TO:
INT. ASYLUM CORRIDOR - UPPER FLOOR - DAY
Clarice flinches as a heavy steel gate CLANGS shut behind
her, the bolt shooting home. Chilton walks ahead of her.
CHILTON
Lecter carved up nine people - that
we’re sure of - and cooked his
favorite bits. We’ve tried to study
him, of course - but he’s much too
sophisticated for the standard tests.
And my, does he hate us! Thinks I’m
his nemesis... Crawford’s very clever,
isn’t he? Using you.
CLARICE
How do you mean, Dr. Chilton?
CHILTON
A pretty young woman, to turn him
on? I don’t believe Lecter’s ever
seen a woman in eight years. And oh,
are you ever his "taste" - so to
speak.
CLARICE
I graduated magna from UVA, Doctor.
It’s not a charm school.
CHILTON
Good. Then you should be able to
remember the rules.
CUT TO:
INT. DIFFERENT CORRIDOR - LOWER FLOOR - DAY
A darker, even grimmer area. Heavy grids over the lights.
Distant SLAMMINGS and faint, hoarse SHOUTS. They walk briskly.
CHILTON
Do not reach through the bars, do
not touch the bars. You pass him
nothing but soft paper - no pens or
pencils. No staples or paperclips in
his paper. Use the sliding food
carrier, no exceptions. Do not accept
anything he attempts to hold out to
you. Do you understand me?
CLARICE
I understand.
CHILTON
I’m going to show you why we insist
on such precautions... On the
afternoon of July 8, 1981, he
complained of chest pains and was
taken to the dispensary. His
mouthpiece and restraints were removed
for an EKG. When the nurse bent over
him, he did this to her...
He hands Clarice a small, dog-eared photo. Looking at it,
she is stopped in her tracks. This pleases Chilton.
CHILTON
The doctors managed to re-set her
jaw, more or less, and save one of
her eyes. His pulse never got over
eighty-five, even when he ate her
tongue.
(pauses, he smiles)
I keep him in here.
He turns, pushes a button. A steel door BUZZES slowly open,
and BARNEY - a big, impassive orderly - awaits them in an
anteroom. On its walls: restraints, mouthpieces, Mace,
tranquilizer guns.
CLARICE
(quickly blocking him)
Dr. Chilton - if Lecter feels you’re
his enemy - as you’ve said - then
maybe I’ll have more luck by myself.
What do you think?
CHILTON
(annoyed)
You might have suggested that in my
office, and saved me the time.
CLARICE
But then I would’ve missed the
pleasure of your company.
She holds out the photo. A beat. He grabs it, jaw twitching.
CHILTON
When she’s finished, bring her out.
He turns on his heel, goes. Barney smiles reassuringly.
BARNEY
Hi, I’m Barney. He told you, don’t
get near the bars?
CLARICE
(shaking his hand)
Clarice Starling. Yes, he did.
BARNEY
Okay. Past the others, it’s the last
cell. Stay to the middle. I put out
a chair for you.
Sensing her tension, he indicates a nearby security monitor.
BARNEY
I’m watching. You’ll do fine.
Clarice nods gratefully. She looks down the long corridor,
takes a deep breath, walks into it. He watches her go.
CUT TO:
INT. DR. LECTER’S CORRIDOR - DAY
MOVING SHOT - with Clarice, as her footsteps ECHO. High to
her right, surveillance cameras. On her left, cells. Some
are padded, with narrow observation slits, others are normal,
barred... Shadowy occupants pacing, MUTTERING... Suddenly a
dark figure in the next-to-last cell hurtles towards her,
his face mashing grotesquely against his bars as he hisses.
DARK FIGURE
I c-can sssmell your cunt!
Clarice flinches momentarily, but then walks on.
DR. LECTER’S CELL
is coming slowly INTO VIEW... Behind its barred front wall
is a second barrier of stout nylon net... Sparse, bolted-
down furniture, many softcover books and papers. On the walls,
extraordinarily detailed, skillful drawings, mostly European
cityscapes, in charcoal or crayon.
Clarice stops, at a polite distance from his bars, clears
her throat.
CLARICE
Dr. Lecter... My name is Clarice
Starling. May I talk with you?
Dr. Hannibal Lecter is lounging on his bunk, in white pajamas,
reading an Italian Vogue. He turns, considers her... A face
so long out of the sun, it seems almost leached - except for
the glittering eyes, and the wet red mouth. He rises smoothly,
crossing to stand before her; the gracious host. His voice
is cultured, soft.
DR. LECTER
Good morning.
CUTTING BETWEEN THEM
as Clarice comes a measured distance closer.
CLARICE
Doctor, we have a hard problem in
psychological profiling. I want to
ask for your help with a
questionnaire.
DR. LECTER
"We" being the Behavioral Science
Unit, at Quantico. You’re one of
Jack Crawford’s, I expect.
CLARICE
I am, yes.
DR. LECTER
May I see your credentials?
Clarice is surprised, but fishes her ID card from her bag,
holds it up for his inspection. He smiles, soothingly.
DR. LECTER
Closer, please... Clo-ser...
She complies each time, trying to hide her fear. Dr. Lecter’s
nostrils lift, as he gently, like an animal, tests the air.
Then he smiles, glancing at her card.
DR. LECTER
(continuing)
That expires in one week. You’re not
real FBI, are you?
CLARICE
I’m - still in training at the
Academy.
DR. LECTER
Jack Crawford sent a trainee to me?
CLARICE
We’re talking about psychology,
Doctor, not the Bureau. Can you decide
for yourself whether or not I’m
qualified?
DR. LECTER
Mmmmm... That’s rather slippery of
you, Officer Starling. Sit. Please.
She sits in the folding metal desk-chair. He waits politely
till she’s settled, then sits down himself, faces her happily.
DR. LECTER
Now then. What did Miggs say to you?
(she is puzzled)
"Multiple Miggs," in the next cell.
He hissed at you. What did he say?
CLARICE
He said - "I can smell your cunt."
DR. LECTER
I see. I myself cannot. You use Evyan
skin cream, and sometimes you wear
L’Air du Temps, but not today. You
brought your best bag, though, didn’t
you?
CLARICE
(beat)
Yes.
DR. LECTER
It’s much better than your shoes.
CLARICE
Maybe they’ll catch up.
DR. LECTER
I have no doubt of it.
CLARICE
(shifting uncomfortably)
Did you do those drawings, Doctor?
DR. LECTER
Yes. That’s the Duomo, seen from the
Belvedere. Do you know Florence?
CLARICE
All that detail, just from memory...?
DR. LECTER
Memory, Officer Starling, is what I
have instead of view.
A pause, then Clarice takes the questionnaire from her case.
CLARICE
Dr. Lecter, if you’d please consider -
DR. LECTER
No, no, no. You were doing fine,
you’d been courteous and receptive
to courtesy, you’d established trust
with the embarrassing truth about
Miggs, and now this ham-handed segue
into your questionnaire. It won’t
do. It’s stupid and boring.
CLARICE
I’m only asking you to look at this,
Doctor. Either you will or you won’t.
DR. LECTER
Jack Crawford must be very busy indeed
if he’s recruiting help from the
student body. Busy hunting that new
one, Buffalo Bill... Such a naughty
boy! Did Crawford send you to ask
for my advice on him?
CLARICE
No, I came because we need -
DR. LECTER
How many women has he used, our Bill?
CLARICE
Five... so far.
DR. LECTER
All flayed...?
CLARICE
Partially, yes. But Doctor, that’s
an active case, I’m not involved. If -
DR. LECTER
Do you know why he’s called Buffalo
Bill? Tell me. The newspapers won’t
say.
CLARICE
I’ll tell you if you’ll look at this
form.
(he considers, then
nods)
It started as a bad joke in Kansas
City Homicide. They said... this one
likes to skin his humps.
DR. LECTER
Witless and misleading. Why do you
think he takes their skins, Officer
Starling? Thrill me with your wisdom.
CLARICE
It excites him. Most serial killers
keep some sort of trophies.
DR. LECTER
I didn’t.
CLARICE
No. You ate yours.
A tense beat, then a smile from him, at this small boldness.
DR. LECTER
Send that through.
She rolls him the questionnaire, in his sliding food tray.
He rises, glances at it, turning a page or two disdainfully.
DR. LECTER
Oh, Officer Starling... do you think
you can dissect me with this blunt
little tool?
CLARICE
No. I only hoped that your knowledge -
Suddenly he whips the tray back at her, with a metallic CLANG
that makes her start. His voice remains a pleasant purr.
DR. LECTER
You’re sooo ambitious, aren’t you...?
You know what you look like to me,
with your good bag and your cheap
shoes? You look like a rube. A well-
scrubbed, hustling rube with a little,
taste... Good nutrition has given
you some length of bone, but you’re
not more than one generation from
poor white trash, are you Officer
Starling...? That accent you’re trying
so desperately to shed - pure West
Virginia. What was your father, dear?
Was he a coal miner? Did he stink of
the lamp...? And oh, how quickly the
boys found you! All those tedious,
sticky fumblings, in the back seats
of cars, while you could only dream
of getting out. Getting anywhere -
yes? Getting all the way - to the
F...B...I.
His every word has struck her like a tiny, precise dart. But
she squares her jaw and won’t give ground.
CLARICE
You see a lot, Dr. Lecter. But are
you strong enough to point that high-
powered perception at yourself? How
about it...? Look at yourself and
write down the truth.
(she slams the tray
back at him)
Or maybe you’re afraid to.
DR. LECTER
You’re a tough one, aren’t you?
CLARICE
Reasonably so. Yes.
DR. LECTER
And you’d hate to think you were
common. My, wouldn’t that sting!
Well you’re far from common, Officer
Starling. All you have is the fear
of it.
(beat)
Now please excuse me. Good day.
CLARICE
And the questionnaire...?
DR. LECTER
A census taker once tried to test
me. I ate his liver with some fava
beans and a nice chianti... Fly back
to school, little Starling.
He steps backwards, then returns to his cot, becoming as
still and remote as a statue. Frustrated, Clarice hesitates,
then finally shoulders her bag and goes, leaving the
questionnaire in his tray. But after just a few steps, as
she passes -
MIGG’S CELL
She sees that creature at his bars again, hissing at her.
MIGGS
I b-bit my wrist so I c-can diiiieeee!
S-ee how it bleeeeeeeeds?
The dark figure suddenly flings his palm towards her, and -
CLARICE
is spattered on the face and neck - not with blood, but with
pale droplets of semen. She gives a little cry, touching her
fingers to the wetness. Stunned, near tears, she forces
herself to straighten up and walk on, fumbling for a tissue.
From behind her, Dr. Lecter calls out, very agitated.
DR. LECTER (O.S.)
Officer Starling... Officer Starling!
Clarice slows, stops. She shudders, but makes the very
difficult choice to turn, walk back, stand again in front of -
DR. LECTER
Who’s shivering with rage. For an instant his face opens,
and we catch a glimpse into hell itself. Then he’s composed
again.
DR. LECTER
I would not have had that happen to
you. Discourtesy is - unspeakably
ugly to me.
CLARICE
Then please - do this test for me.
DR. LECTER
No. But I will make you happy...
I’ll give you a chance for what you
love most, Clarice Starling.
CLARICE
What’s that, Dr. Lecter?
DR. LECTER
Advancement, of course.
&nbs