(**)

In the end, why is such an overwhelming production an underwhelming experience?

The legend of Frankenstein dates back to the 1818 book by Mary Shelley. A novel that told the story of a mad scientist, Victor Frankenstein, who built a creature from reanimated body parts. An act that forced the book’s readers to consider the ethics of such a deed and how blind ambition can make men do callous, uncaring and dehumanizing things. (Fact, the creature was never called Frankenstein; it had no name. But many to this day think that’s the case.) 

That’s the lure that attracted Thomas Edison’s company to produce a short film of the same name in 1910. However, most horror genre aficionados will point to the OG 1931 film Frankenstein, which starred Boris Karloff as the monster, and was a scary, gothic and haunting production. Since then, successors have included Bride of Frankenstein (1935), satires like Mel Brooks’ Young Frankenstein (1974) and British actor/director Kenneth Branagh’s artsy Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein (1994). There’s been around 50+ versions. So, how will a new one breakaway from the pack? 

In Oscar® winning writer/director Guillermo del Toro’s (The Shape of Water) mind, the strategy is to harp on the creator/created father/son aspects of the legend. Then pour on excess amounts of artful, stagey production elements. Like dousing a small story with lots of perfume. From the first images of a snowy, freezing Arctic, bombastic music blares (Alexandre Desplat, The Shape of Water), the sets, indoor and outdoor, feel gigantic (Tamara Deverell). The dazzling cinematography (Dan Lausten, The Shape of Water), not hiding like a fly on the wall, is so obtrusive it should command second billing. That’s the approach. Aesthetics as a sledgehammer, not as subtle assistance. And add in incessant voiceover narration that becomes a crutch. 

In 1857, the scientist Victor Frankenstein (Oscar Issac) seeks refuge on a boat stuck in the freezing Arctic. He’s hiding from something. A scared crew and its Scandinavian captain (Lars Mikkelsen) shield him. A tall and menacing figure, with brute strength, approaches the vessel. Not bothered by the ammunition, firepower and manpower thrown its way. The entity advances. Frankenstein shivers. What’s before him is an enraged creature (Jacob Elordi). A freak he created from bits and pieces of humans and one that’s out for revenge and to set the story straight. A recollection emerges and it’s hard to believe. It’s filled with blind ambition, a disregard for human life, attempted murder and abandonment. “My maker told his story… and I will tell you mine.” 

For the next 150 minutes, del Toro retells one of the most famous horror narratives of all time. At his film’s core, is a struggle between two adversaries: A callous, narcissistic smart guy (a la Elon Musk). A creature struggling to harness feelings, command its power and go after the guy who done him wrong. That vindictive spirit is the only plot device that provides momentum. Exploring Victor’s warped childhood is interesting, but not fundamental. Adding in a young brother (Felix Kammerer) doesn’t amount to much. Though the brother’s wife (Mia Goth) comes in handy as a woman who finds the soft sensitive side of a monster shunned by its maker. It’s a romance that has some staying power. 

All is in place for a period drama of operatic proportions. Little of it speaks to the scare factor and action that fans of the genre will expect. Too much talking and fancy scenery. Not enough movement that’s exhilarating. Except for a battle with wolves, who turn out to be toothy, growling but fuzzy-looking canines that give CGI a bad name. The monster gets in some fights, runs from burning buildings, but none of it gets the heart racing, continuously. The grainy black and white 1931 film left audiences mesmerized by a haunting feeling. That eeriness is absent, here. 

Also, the central protagonist isn’t imposing or spooky. Not like Boris Karloff. Elordi is too thin and willowy to be threatening. He’s handsome, lanky and poised like a supermodel on a Paris Fashion week runway wearing blue makeup and swathed in designer shawls. His physicality is all wrong. In the least, he needed a bodysuit. Dwayne Johnson wore one in Moana, to bulk up his musculature. It can be done. In his defense, Elordi knows how to shape a believable character, that doesn’t look like him. He did so as Elvis in the movie Priscilla. At a skinny 6’5,” he didn’t have the same physical attributes as the rock icon who was 6.” Yet he created a persona so convincing, it felt like Elvis’ soul was on the screen. 

In this venture, he can’t muster the threatening physique or aura the film needed. Couldn’t scare a fly. He’s been miscast and misguided. A smart casting director would have sought out a big bulky man, like wrestler-turned-serious-actor Dave Bautista (Knock at the Cabin Door). Standing at 6’ 6” and weighing 240 pounds he’s becoming a great actor. Just add lifts in his shoes, the right prosthetics and makeup and he’d easily become the monster this film deserved.

Isaacs, as the cad Victor, seems more like a frustrated misunderstood painter than the villain he needed to be. Goth as the love interest may be the most perfectly cast in the film. Sensitve, sweet, caring. Charles Dance as Victor’s harsh dad and Christoph Waltz as a benefactor are both suitable but dispensable. 

This film’s visual spectacle is impressive. Wish the same attention to detail had been channeled to the horror and action elements. The kind that genre fans (teens, adolescents, twentysomethings) expect. This Frankenstein, a stagey adult art film, is underwhelming. A movie that will leave some as cold as the Arctic.

Trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8aulMPhE12g  
Photos courtesy of the Toronto International Film Festival 
For more information about the Toronto International Film Festival go to https://tiff.net/. 
Visit Film Critic Dwight Brown at DwightBrownInk.com.