Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein

Directed by Kenneth Branagh, Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein follows Branagh’s Victor Frankenstein as he successfully manages to create a human life (Robert De Niro) out of stitched-together parts from various corpses – with complications ensuing after said human life eventually embarks on a campaign of violent revenge against his maker. Filmmaker Branagh, working from Steph Lady and Frank Darabont’s screenplay, delivers a briskly-paced yet mostly uninvolving adaptation that squanders its compelling setup and striking performances, as the movie, which runs a palpably overlong 123 minutes, has been suffused with a persistently (and aggressively) over-the-top sensibility that becomes more and more intolerable as time progresses – with Branagh’s relentlessly broad approach to the material essentially preventing the viewer from working up much interest in or enthusiasm for the central character’s exploits. And although the picture admittedly boasts a small handful of compelling stretches, including (and especially) a mid-movie digression involving De Niro’s character’s exploits alongside a small, isolated family, Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein builds towards a woefully tedious third act that ensures it ends on just about as underwhelming and anticlimactic a note as one could envision – which is a shame, really, given the obvious potential afforded by both the premise and roster of performers.

*1/2 out of ****