I, Frankenstein

In the movie, I, Frankenstein, Frankenstein’s monster teams up with a clan of gargoyles to fight a race of demons that wish to destroy the human race.

Okay. Sounds like a fun yet forgettable ninety minutes of action and special effects.

It wasn’t.

To attack this movie for its weak, two-dimensional plot feels as if a world-renown foodie decided to review McDonald’s dollar menu. However, this is a movie review, so I must escort the plot before the firing squadron.

The aforementioned demons want to destroy the human race . . . for some reason.

The gargoyles have sworn to stop them . . . for some reason.

Frankenstein’s monster (who’s called “Adam” half the time and “Frankenstein” the other half) has spent the last two hundred years since his creation in pursuit of nothing, whatsoever. Then, he decides to go after the demons because . . . <sigh> reasons.

I would like, at the risk of sounding insane, to state how ridiculously racist these situations strike me. Yes, I know that gargoyles and demons aren’t real, but why would every demons want to destroy humanity and every gargoyles wish to save it?

It strikes me as lazy, at the least. Why build a complicated character with actual motives, when you can simply select a race for that character and have them behave in stereotypical fashion?

The writers could have, at a minimum, attempted to explain why the demons hate people. Yes, I know, they’re demons (and, yes, the emblematic value of that did not escape me), but it still makes for flat characters with no individualisms, nothing that motivates their actions.

I remember countless writing professors who swore I couldn’t include more than a few members of the same race in my fantasy novels, lest they “blend together.” Not if I write them with individual histories, personalities, and goals that make sense given those histories and personalities.

Consider how moronic it would sound if I suggested that you couldn’t include more than two Mexicans in a movie, lest they “bled together.”

The movie takes place in a major city where exactly two humans live. Everyone else (seriously) exists as a gargoyle or a demon. Both humans serve as scientists who work (unbeknownst to them) for the demons.

One of these humans (an older guy) does pretty much nothing of consequence.

A pretty, young woman plays the other human, and—shocker—she serves as Adam’s reward for killing the bad guys.

This female human seems incapable of surprise. Her boss, the demon prince, hands her an old book, identifies the book as Frankenstein’s diary, and explains that, with it, they can reanimate the dead. She nods as if that’s the most perfectly normal thing she’s ever heard.

I, Frankenstein's special effects prove “special” the way a candy shop features a “special” on Dum Dum lollipops. Rubber masks and pitiful computer-generated effects abound.

The acting (or lack thereof) sounds terrible, but this seems an unfair observation on my part. These actors and actresses had nothing with which to work. Many of these people try to “act” by yelling (angry) or talking to the floor (broody).

Dialogue remains this movie’s ugliest quality. An alarming percentage of it tells the audience what’s happening right in front of them or re-clarifies something the audience already knows.

That made me think . . .

I re-watched I, Frankenstein on mute, and I realized that this would’ve worked as a silent movie—a bad silent movie, but still interesting for its silence.

Heck, carve this disaster down to about an hour, kill all the dialogue, and make it into an extra-long music video with multiple songs by multiple artists, and you might produce a creative feature.

The creation of any movie, even a terrible one, requires massive amounts of effort. A lot of people (many with impressive work on their resumes) worked very hard to produce this pile of crap. I wish I could say something nice about it. I wish I could offer politer, more constructive advice. I wish I could mention a few of the movie’s good points, but I can’t think of one.

If you plan to accommodate a brain-damaged five-year-old who won’t ask questions, this movie might work. Otherwise, avoid it (the movie, not the five-year-old).

(You can catch my short stories at martinwolt.blogspot.com, and my novels, such as Daughters of Darkwana, on Kindle.)