Movie Review: "Victor Frankenstein" What Is Dead Should Stay Dead And Not Remade

I've been away for a long time.  Wasting my time on tumblr and twitter, being generally paralyzed by the state of the world, the usual.  But I've found myself wanting to write about films.  Currently I am screening the films of Daniel Radcliffe.  I was knocked out by Swiss Army Man, about which more in a future entry.  I've never seen more than a few minutes of Harry Potter.  So I don't come encumbered with any baggage when I watch his films.

So, I’ve been watching Victor Frankenstein, and I have to say, it stinks. Both James MacAvoy and Daniel Radcliffe do their damndest to bring the story to life. But not only have we seen this before, we have to wait for a hellishly long time for the monster.  Which then explodes in a series of blinding flashes and complete nonsense.  At the end the movie sets itself up for a sequel. Since it flopped, I doubt one is forthcoming.

Watching on my computer screen is a blessing.  I can stop the movie, do some chores, and come back. I can’t imagine sitting through this on the big screen.

Good evening, I'll be your tortured freak for the evening

The beginning is by far the best part of the movie, when Igor (Daniel Radcliffe) is the abused nameless hunchback/gifted doctor in the circus who is freed by Victor Frankenstein (James McAvoy).  Amazingly enough, the “hump” is a gigantic 18-year-old abscess.  Um, okay.  The first intensely homoerotic sequence is Victor smashing the hunchback against a pillar to straighten his body.  Victor names him Igor.  Igor is amazed at standing up.  He is told to take a shower and dress and do something about his hair. Amazingly enough, he knows how to shower, shave, and cut his hair.

Why look, it’s Daniel Radcliffe.

Within hours, his gait has straightened, learned to dress himself in spiffy Victorian fashion, and stride jauntily around the streets of London. Throughout the picture, Radcliffe manages to suggest his former self at moments. But for the most part he becomes a proper English gentleman able to dance, fall in love and have sex with Lady Sybil from Downton Abbey. She has no real identity because we come for the monster, stay for the hot and heavy bromance.  I love a good potential ship as much as the next fan, but I wanted to slap James McAvoy.  My god, man, you probably didn’t need to go to craft services because you were too busy chewing scenery.

Aaaaacting!

Victor and Igor create a chimpanzee and bring it to life, but it turns out to be a crazed killer in a sequence that doesn’t get anybody killed but does break a lot of glass. Hunted by an extremely dull police inspector, they hide out in a castle and bring the monster to life in the last 10 minutes.  Right before the whole big bang finale, we hear Igor saying, “you know the story” which serves to make the ending of the movie even more tedious.

It involves lots of shouting in the rain.  The monster is–well–a monster.  Tries to kill everyone, there are explosions, screams, minor characters falling to their death blah blah blah.  I’ve watched the ending twice and I still can’t figure out what’s going on. Explosions, majestic faux-classical chorus, people screaming. That’s okay, I’ll wait it out.  By the way, there’s huge pieces of metal, guns, electricity–how come it doesn’t occur to anyone to stab the bloody thing in the HEAD?

The movie flopped, in part because of its bloated budget. If the filmmakers hadn’t be so in love with their Sherlock knock-off, they might have cut 30 minutes and cut the redundant dialogue about life/death God/man. Why bother when we know the ending?

It’s not all bad. I opened my mail, paused it and made some phone calls, looked it up on imdb.com and got to look at Daniel Radcliffe. He is sexy and adorable. I’ve only seen him as adult actor. So I have Harry Potter reference points. Probably good, because then I might be thinking of the Boy Who Lived instead of the Monster Who Died.

Personal Post: Our trip to Europe, Days 1 & 2 - Drugs Are Not Always My Friend

So! On October 25, we traveled to Europe to be in London for our wedding anniversary, and then Paris for my birthday.  We have never been to Europe together.  Jeff's family traveled extensively, and I lived in London during my late teens/early twenties before I was deported.  Long story.  We were total tourists; had sent me two Rick Steves guides for my birthday. Jeff had one or the other with him at all times, and we weren't afraid to stand on the street going "buh?" as we found our way around.

We flew on Virgin Atlantic.  Since I despise flying, I insisted we book Premium Economy, which is worth EVERY PENNY.  Large leather seats, more legroom, everything free.  If we were drinkers we would have made out like bandits.  It's probably their equivalent to Business Class, which we've never flown.  Also individual tvs and great meals on plates with real utensils. When we boarded, we were offered free champagne, but we chose orange juice instead.  Rather than the red eye, we decided to spend Saturday traveling, leaving around 7 AM and getting in somewhere around 8. Don't ask me--I was so bombed on drugs I could have been in New Jersey.  We checked in at the Windermere Hotel on Warwick Way, south-west London near Victoria Station. The underground looked EXACTLY the way I remembered it.  The entire street was hotels!  This photograph is not mine; it shows the front of the hotel.



Our room was at the very top.  I knew European hotel rooms are tiny, so I reserved a "superior double."  Look at all of that space to luxuriate in!


The door is about a foot away, and there is a teeny shelf called a "desk".

The bathroom had a skylight!!  It felt like the height of luxury.  The one problem was that there were no bars in the shower, so Jeff had to help me in and out.  Our view was of the council housing (in New York, housing projects for the poor) outside.  I smashed into the bed while Jeff went for a walk around the hotel.


Sorry for the blurriness.  You can see the council housing behind the hotel

Jeff's pictures are much sharper; I might have to snag them off Facebook.  Anyway, you can see the council housing behind us.  We're in the tiny rooms on the top.

There was a little restaurant below ground.  Every morning they offered a "full English breakfast": eggs, ham, bacon, sausage, grilled tomato, mushrooms and baked beans.  There was also a little buffet of cereal and fruit salad.  We did mixes of the English breakfast every morning.  Except you couldn't pay me to eat the baked beans.  I ate beans on toast and spaghetti on toast constantly when I lived there.

Our first day, we arranged to meet a friend of Jeff's at a traditional restaurant called Brown's, which has locations all over the place.  We wanted the roast and Yorkshire pudding.  I should warn you now, there are no pictures of food.  We got hopelessly lost, and were extremely late. Andrew, Jeff's friend, was too damned gracious!  I kept insisting they sit next to each other, because it was so loud.  Andrew was so polite, "oh, no, no, you stay right there."

What Andrew didn't know was that I was still drunk from the drugs.  Shortly after this picture was taken, I fell asleep at the table!  Even THEN Andrew insisted I sit between them!  The food wasn't very good.  I wanted the pork roast, which they were out of, so I had chicken. Jeff said his mother made much better Yorkshire pudding. After that we ate at ethnic restaurants or suggestions from the guidebook.


Yours truly, about to faceplant into the Yorkshire pudding

I had to ask Jeff what we did for the rest of the day. He says we went to Covent Garden, which I have no memory of. We walked all day, so I was happy to smash into the bed again. As an American, I'm slightly grossed out by there being a white bottom sheet and a large white duvet with no top sheet. It was the same in both hotels. Why? Especially with the high stain risk?

Glad to finally get this posted!!!!