Review of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein (1994) by Doug G — 15 May 2011

Sure, it's the most faithful adaptation of Mary Shelley's book to date, but when all it amounts to is constant breathless hysteria, why would you even want to tune in? Kenneth Branagh's grandiosity as a director has served him well in his Shakespeare adaptations, as well as more recent spectacle pictures like Thor, but in exploring a sad tale about what it means to be alive, or a man, he cranks the orchestra up to 11 and hopes for the best.

Unsurprisingly, it does not work. The cast heaves and wails to the best of their ability, but any attempt at greater depth or subtlety is drowned out by the cracks of thunder and swells of stringed instruments.

Robert de Niro is the lightning rod for all these histrionics, mugging and growling like his career depends on it. Branagh seems to have lost confidence in his material and tried to give it a universally appealing aesthetic, as if the audience wouldn't find anything to love in a period piece.

Indeed, anything not related to Frankenstein's monster is chronically dull - a misguided romantic subplot, meant to end in tragedy but feeling entirely like a plot contrivance, or some half-heartedly explored daddy issues.

It's a noble attempt, and good-natured, but at the end of it all I just felt sort of yelled at. Frankenstein is like a decent meal drowned in way, way too much ketchup.