Gods and Monsters
Ah yes, the little movie that could. No doubt that more than a few heads were shaking the night of the Academy Awards when the Best Adapted Screenplay trophy had "Gods and Monsters" written on it. What the heck is this film, and why is Brendan Fraser in hootin' and hollerin' with artsy-types Ian McKellen and Lynn Redgrave?
Turns out that Bill Condon is fascinated with James Whale, a director I had never heard of, but what a resume-- _Show Boat_, _The Invisible Man_, _The Man in the Iron Mask_, and the first two Frankenstein movies. Condon made a love poem to one of Hollywood's great neglected directors, one whose eccentric behavior had him all but blacklisted in Hollywood, at a time when very few directors were acknowledged.
So far, so good. James Whale is near the end of his life, and he's living in a respectable little suburban house, far from the glitz that Hollywood is accustomed to. One day, he witnesses the young man mowing the lawn, and pursues a friendship with him (Brendan Fraser)...
And much, much, more. Gods and Monsters, from the very start, veers into territory that is popular amongst art-houses--the homosexual angst film. "Oh, woe is me. If only I were understood. If only I were acknowledged for the real me." These words were not spoken, but they might as well have been.
I can appreciate films which explore hidden characters of great, unacknowledged individuals. But tell me, in Hollywood, is not the definition of one's sexual preference quickly taking the defining role as to who that person truly is? How superficial.
Ian McKellen does an extraordinary job as to hiding completely within some of the eccentricities of James Whale. But take away the homosexual fetishes of this dirty old man (which he had truly become), and who do you have? According to this movie, nothing at all.
The other performances are wonderful, including Brendan Fraser. But trumping the entire cast is none other than Lynn Redgrave, as Hanna, Whale's overly ethnic housekeeper. What a performance. Redgrave is fully convincing, very funny, and quite emotional. I've seen this, and I've seen Judi Dench, and to be quite frank, Redgrave was robbed.
And the screenplay has moments of genuine old-fashioned emotionalism, as it looks at Hollywood at a simpler time, still learning how to deal with fame, only as shallow as characters the actors played. The scene I really liked was a mini-reunion between Whale, Boris Karloff and Ella Fitzgerald, of the Frankenstein movies. What was a genuine reunion of old friends turns into a mundane photo shoot. Such is the price of fame.
The tragedy is that Condon falls into the same trap that the film's fictitious reporters have fallen into. The reporters could care less about who Whale truly is: just talk about them Frankenstein movies. Condon couldn't care less either: he wants only to talk about Whale's homoerotic impulses late in life. I appreciate the sentiment, but I still don't know who the heck he is.
Nick Scale (1 to 10): 6
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