"Frankenstein: The True Story" is what happens when a literary adaptation is allowed to run riot over dramatic elements. Christopher Isherwood is a highly respected writer, but someone should have stopped him from this flaccid reverie only partially based on Mary Shelley's story.
During the course of the 3-hour version of this TV movie, you can catch the author making heavy-handed references to "Pygmalion," "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde," "The Hands of Orlac," "Tales of Hoffmann," and "Fu Manchu" among others. It almost turns into a parlor game to catch the petty thefts from other sources.
Perhaps the whole thing might have gone better with another director. I've never seen a Jack Smight movie without feeling that he's somehow fumbled it, slack rhythms and the camera often in the wrong place. This too feels like a misfire. Pyrotechnics and lava lamp effects notwithstanding, the great set pieces are uniformly feeble. It's like he doesn't shoot the story, but shoots around it.
Smight certainly gets bad performances out of well-remembered actors. James Mason is helplessly inadequate trying to convey the emotion of terror. Agnes Moorehead is over the top, Michael Wilding produces his dazed smile and little more, Margaret Leighton is actively embarrassing, Sir John Gielgud perfunctory and Sir Ralph Richardson's blind hermit is perhaps the worst performance of his film career.
I suppose it's not possible to stage the love triangle of Victor Frankenstein, the girl he wants to marry and the male monster he creates without raising an eyebrow from time to time, but this retelling of the tale strongly evokes the sexual ambiguities of Isherwood's "Cabaret." The monster is played not by a hulk but by a hunk, a soulful young stud who loves Mozart opera. The first meeting of Frankenstein and his monster plays like a pickup. The character of Dr. Polidori is openly contemptuous of "mere" women, and it is he, not the monster, who disrupts Victor's wedding night. Generally women come off very badly, the older ones caricatures of old bags, and the younger ones annoying, even nightmarish, in their sexual demands.
Despite the starriness of the supporting cast, this film is merely a curiosity. The famous Karloff/Whale version remains the first among equals, and the Oscarsson/Floyd "Terror of Frankenstein" conveys the book the best among the color versions.
Unfortunately, Mel Brooks actually gets closer to Mary Shelley's vision than this film does. Only for completists.
During the course of the 3-hour version of this TV movie, you can catch the author making heavy-handed references to "Pygmalion," "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde," "The Hands of Orlac," "Tales of Hoffmann," and "Fu Manchu" among others. It almost turns into a parlor game to catch the petty thefts from other sources.
Perhaps the whole thing might have gone better with another director. I've never seen a Jack Smight movie without feeling that he's somehow fumbled it, slack rhythms and the camera often in the wrong place. This too feels like a misfire. Pyrotechnics and lava lamp effects notwithstanding, the great set pieces are uniformly feeble. It's like he doesn't shoot the story, but shoots around it.
Smight certainly gets bad performances out of well-remembered actors. James Mason is helplessly inadequate trying to convey the emotion of terror. Agnes Moorehead is over the top, Michael Wilding produces his dazed smile and little more, Margaret Leighton is actively embarrassing, Sir John Gielgud perfunctory and Sir Ralph Richardson's blind hermit is perhaps the worst performance of his film career.
I suppose it's not possible to stage the love triangle of Victor Frankenstein, the girl he wants to marry and the male monster he creates without raising an eyebrow from time to time, but this retelling of the tale strongly evokes the sexual ambiguities of Isherwood's "Cabaret." The monster is played not by a hulk but by a hunk, a soulful young stud who loves Mozart opera. The first meeting of Frankenstein and his monster plays like a pickup. The character of Dr. Polidori is openly contemptuous of "mere" women, and it is he, not the monster, who disrupts Victor's wedding night. Generally women come off very badly, the older ones caricatures of old bags, and the younger ones annoying, even nightmarish, in their sexual demands.
Despite the starriness of the supporting cast, this film is merely a curiosity. The famous Karloff/Whale version remains the first among equals, and the Oscarsson/Floyd "Terror of Frankenstein" conveys the book the best among the color versions.
Unfortunately, Mel Brooks actually gets closer to Mary Shelley's vision than this film does. Only for completists.