Mary Shelley's Frankenstein

When Francis Coppola scored a success with directing a faithful (relatively) adaptation of Bram Stoker's classic horror novel Dracula, he then set out to make its frequent companion, Frankenstein, based on the much earlier novel by Mary Shelley. He only produced, though, and let Kenneth Branagh, wunderkind of the British stage, direct and star. The result depends on one's mood, I expect.

I remember liking it back in '94 when it was released, but after just taking a second look I have to reevaluate. Branagh certainly manages to achieve a certain style--achieve is too mild a word. He grabs style by the throat and shakes it. It's as if he immersed himself in gothic literature and put everything he knows through that prism, and his film is a overwrought hyperbolic two hours of giddy excess. I suspect this was Branagh's goal, but is it something we want to see?

The film is an extremely faithful adaptation of the book, a story which fell into the mists of history when the popular James Whale rewrote Shelley in Universal-speak. That film is, of course, brilliantly iconic, but loses much of Shelley's point, as expressed in her subtitle, The Modern Prometheus. Yes, Colin Clive had a delicious god complex in the Whale version, but we lose the shadings of the creature, and we are reminded in the Branagh version that he was intelligent. He is played by Robert DeNiro, in an alternately wonderful and dreadful performance, one that has to be seen to be believed.

Branagh is the title character, a medical student who wants to eradicate death, and through the use of electric eels and a large copper pot stitches together some dead convict parts (and the brain of John Cleese) to make his creature. He is immediately horrified by his creation (there is a subtext of lookism at foot here) and lets the thing run off into the cholera-ridden streets. Branagh returns to his happy Geneva home and his fiancee, Helena Bonham Carter, who was raised as his sister (there is also a subtext of incest).

The creature wanders the woods and takes refuge in the pig sty of a struggling farm family, where he, unseen, helps them out and vicariously learns to read and speak. When they see him, though, they are repulsed, and he runs off, sobbing. He vows revenge against his creator, and becomes like that movie cliche of the villain who seemingly can walk through walls. After killing a few of the doc's family members, he tells Branagh he will leave him alone if he makes him a mate.

All of this is told in flashback on an icebound ship in the Arctic, which is also part of the book, even though it seems like a fever-induced idea from a screenwriter. There is lots of fire, but the monster has no fear of it, and also lots of hammy declamation. My favorites are when Branagh channels Clive and says, "It lives!" or when DeNiro tells the world, "I will have my revenge! Frankenstein!" Part of the problem is that this whole concept has been perfectly parodied in Young Frankenstein, and whenever I saw Branagh with his open shirt and flowing locks I thought of Gene Wilder and laughed.

This is a handsome production, though. The photography by Roger Pratt is luscious, particularly a scene shot in an ice cave and Bonham Carter's fiery exit from the film, which is also a remarkable bit of stunt work by her double, Tracy Eddon.

Branagh is an interesting figure in recent film history. He scores big with Shakespeare--Henry V , his first film, remains his best, and his uncut Hamlet had merit and one of his best acting jobs was as Iago in Othello (though his Love's Labour's Lost is supposed to be a travesty), but outside of the Bard he has fared far worse. His film work has dried up lately, limited to supporting roles in a Harry Potter film and a weird Woody Allen impersonation in Celebrity. I imagine he has focused mostly on stage work, but one has to consider his film career a disappointment after the promise of Henry V.