Kenneth Branagh's sumptuous version for Francis Coppola's Zoetrope, the umpteenth cinematic stab at Mary Shelley's story, is a vigorous, entertaining re-telling. Branagh directs the actors to deliver this shitload of exposition in the following irritating manner: talk fast, mug outrageously I swear I caught Branagh biting a knuckle to express grief and swoop through doors, down staircases and around laboratories to give the impression that what you are saying is of breathless importance.
The story leading up to Frankenstein's desire to create life involves his love affair with Elizabeth Helena Bonham Carterhis sister by adoption.
Branagh hurls characters at us. Want more Rolling Stone?
In fact, given the tone of this film, humor might easily have seemed an unwelcome intrusion. The creature, although initially showing signs of being a sympathetic and caring soul, quickly learns that the ways of man are harsh and judgmental, so he swears revenge on his creator for bringing him into this world of isolation.
The birth scene plays like a Freudian hellzapoppin.