Picked up in the arctic by an exploration ship, Victor Frankenstein (Kenneth Brannagh) tells his tragic story—how he fell in love with his stepsister, Elizabeth (Helena Bonham Carter), how his mother died a bloody death during childbirth, how he went to school to become a doctor, and how, in his quest to end death, he created a living creature (Robert De Niro).
Sticking an author’s or a director’s name before the title is a red flag for me. It’s an announcement that the film isn’t good enough to lure in an audience, so maybe the name will. In this case, the filmmakers claim it’s there because Universal has the rights to the single word “Frankenstein.” Whatever the reason, you shouldn’t go into this thinking it’s a faithful version of Mary Shelley’s book. It is closer than many, but as some have nothing to do with the book outside of character names, that’s not saying much.
The name of this film should have been Kenneth Brannagh’s Frankenstein, as it has his touch everywhere. At home in larger than life, epic, romantic parts, he has transformed Victor Frankenstein into a romance novel lead. With flooffy hair and washboard abs, this Frankenstein doesn’t carry out immoral acts, but rather fights heroically for all of mankind, as well as his love, only to be foiled by bad luck and timing.
I’m not opposed to heroes or romance, but Frankenstein is not a story that lends itself to a Fabio rewrite. The Creature is repellant and Victor chops up corpses—not the stuff of pretty Victorian corset-bursting fiction. If Branaugh has dialed it down a few notches, then, with a reworking of the creature, perhaps it might of worked. But Branaugh is in full opera mode, yelling, weeping, and barking his lines. Frankenstein is a larger than life story, but even it has its limits.
The rest of the cast is somewhere between acceptable and good. John Cleese is cast against type as a dark, troubled scientist, and shows that he can do more than comedy. Helena Bonham Carter doesn’t come off as well and ends up being a ’90s girl playing dress up.
No matter how hard Branaugh fights to make this his film, Frankenstein is always about the Creature. Boris Karloff brought not only heart to the monster, but also something original, something alien. De Niro’s version is sympathetic, but he’s just a guy with scars. There’s nothing special, supernatural, or even odd about him. You can’t have a monster movie without a monster, and all Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein has is a man in need of a plastic surgeon.
De Niro is also one half of one of the oddest scenes in recent film history. Naked, he is dumped, along with a hot tub’s supply of warm jell-o onto the floor to be grabbed and felt-up by a half naked Branaugh. If this is the gay porn section of the film, I at least understand the intention. But nowhere else does this subtext exist. If I’m not supposed to take this as homoerotic wrestling, how would Branaugh and company like me to take it? If Mr. Branaugh wasn’t auditioning for a part in “Man Meat,” then this scene shows just how little thought was put into this project.