In Hannibal's 3.10, it's getting late, but Tooth Fairies are night owls, and Francis Dolarhyde (Richard Armitage) takes his pedo-van to Maryland on a pilgrimage to Hannibal's old, plastic-shrouded office. Within, he jumps wires in the telephony before unwrapping and starting up Hannibal's old computer, perhaps surprisingly, not claimed by law enforcement as a part of the investigation into his... everything. Via technology, Dolarhyde is announced as Byron Metcalfe, Hannibal's ersatz lawyer but his real, true Number One Fan.
(Welcome to a truly awful job. At least crime scene cleaners know that they're improving the feng shui, scrubbing the auras, making the horrible just a little bit better. But think about having to preserve that atmosphere of yuck, inviolate, carefully maintaing the lair of a supervillain against moth and water damage in anticipation of his returns... someday.)
Anyway, Dr. Hannibal Lecter (Mads Mikkelsen) answers the call with receptivity that earns Dolarhyde's very best growl. Nicknames can be so cruel and misleading, the killers agree. Dolarhyde seems to be aiming towards a king-is-dead, long-live-the-king kind of coronation as the top Beast, and Dr. Lecter approves, as he always does of a worthy challenger. But as we've seen, Hannibal can make people think powerful things using just his voice. When Dolarhyde, with Hannibal's assistance, fully envisions himself as the flaming dragon on the rocky mount, I almost had to raise a lighter and a forefinger-pinky salute, because it was so metal and bad-ass. Yay!
I've also enjoyed how these remote phone conversations are visually assembled together in imagined space. Whether between hotel-bound Will and Molly in the casualness of the Graham cabin's bedroom last week, or in the now-familiar bookended chairs in Hannibal's office, letting the characters actually interact is a treat beyond watching them emote into plastic mouthpieces.
Dr. Bedelia DuMaurier (Gillian Anderson) is lecturing in front of a group of nodding, reputably academic-looking heads, stepping from behind the podium—not done in most mic'd up situations, but demonstrating she has no fear of this room. All one's self, she asserts, is a construct of the mind (to be dismantled by repeeated overwriting and strong drugs). But her bit about being swallowed by the beast tips that she knows there's something deeper, more primal than mentation underneath this “mind” to which she's so apparently devoted. She throws a gloss of Dante on it for the punters, but here's Will Graham (Hugh Dancy) to remind her she's a liar, and ask, well he never gets to what he wants to ask beyond, “How'd you manage to walk away unscarred? I'm covered in scars.” Good point. She's acting superior and know-it-all-y, as usual, tells Will to make an appointment. That's petty, Bedelia, because your house is as glass as the shattered table in your office.
[Meet another woman who appreciates a beast...]