MARY SHELLEY'S FRANKENSTEIN
A film review by Edward W. Felton
Copyright 1994 Edward W. Felton
After two triumphant Shakespearean adaptations, HENRY V and MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING and two decently silly movies in PETER'S FRIENDS and DEAD AGAIN, MARY SHELLEY'S FRANKENSTEIN is Belfast wunderkind Kenneth Branagh's fifth film, a cautionary tale of English Roses, unnecessarily bad stitching, and several pints of amniotic fluid. Everyone knows the story: giant made from corpses seeks revenge on creator, bolt in neck and bad attitude optional.
Branagh plays the devilishly handsome and talented Doctor Frankenstein, brought up in idyllic Swiss home by dream parents Cheri Lungi and Ian Holm. Mother subsequently dies in childbirth, however, which naturally spurs the youthful Frankenstein towards a future of grave robbing and desecration. There is much shaking of fists at the sky and imploring it must not be so; off the dashing young Professor goes to learn the medical profession, which apparently involves a great deal of heating coloured liquid in tubes--standard mad scientist fare. He comes under the influence of a bring-'em-back-to-life guru (a criminally under-used John Cleese in false teeth) who soon dies, conveniently allowing an ironic reprise of the "it must not be so" routine. Meanwhile, quintessential English rose Helena Bonham-Carter, obviously on a free transfer from Merchant Ivory, does her normal gadding about the place in frilly dresses and complicated hairdos, wailing all the while.
The fun starts when the monster itself is created; mayhem ensues when Robert De Niro wakes up to find what a bad movie he's in, and that his makeup takes hours to put on. (Critic carefully avoids saying the movie comes to life....) Branagh, fitfully effective, continues to disappoint in the direction of action scenes. He seems happiest with dialogue, close confrontation, and the detail to be found in faces. In contrasting the porcelain perfection of Bonham-Carter with the crude baseness of the monster, Branagh has the essence of the film. There is too little of this, however, and what little there is is badly used: one's attention and sympathies soon start to wander, as both characterisation and the episodic plot are poorly developed. Still, some scenes work well; the initial creation of life is dramatically effective, as are De Niro's opening scenes.
Branagh, however thrives on words. His two major successes had, in William Shakespeare, the greatest screenwriter of them all. He struggles with this clumsy Frankenstein adaptation a real disappointment, as there was ample opportunity in the movie for a genuine talent (that's Branagh, by the way, not Bonham Carter) to explore the questions that the story offers; immortality, life after death, philosophy of the soul. All that good stuff. Instead, we get a monster movie that anyone could have made. The duality of the monster good versus evil, newborn innocence versus primal brutality is dealt with unforgivably crudely. One moment, De Niro is crying after people were rude to him, and the next he's blithely ripping out vital organs to beat the band. Of the few quality scenes on hand, one has the monster being comforted by a blind farmer, played by Branagh stalwart Richard Briers, where the anguish of Dr. Frankenstein's folly is both touching and believable. De Niro has enough insight and talent to convey the monster's loneliness in this short scene, before being sent groaning and lurching back into this passionless script. It's hardly Mary Shelley's fault, although no woman who marries a man who lives on vinegar and potatoes solely to keep his complexion clear can be entirely without blame.
Similar in many respects to Coppola's DRACULA (with Francis Ford acting as executive producer on this movie) FRANKENSTEIN is self-important, occasionally extremely gory and mildly entertaining. And give me Emma Thompson opposite Branagh every time. Three out of ten.
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