All I have to say about Liongate’s newest offering I, Frankenstein is “Oh, my Gawd! Who got paid to make this bullsh*t?”
This latest robitussin induced nightmare from the creators of “UNDERWORLD” comes from the jacked up graphic novel “I, Frankenstein” by Kevin Grevioux, and is directed by Stuart Beattie.
Theoretically we could cleverly say, “brought to life by Beattie” but that would be a damned lie and much more stylish than this cadaver of a film.
This excrement splattered mess of misbegotten cinema is set in a dystopic video game where noble gargoyles and demons who don’t play well with others fight for the ultimate power of immortality.
Who knew demons were mortal, right? Victor Frankenstein’s creation Adam (Aaron Eckhart) finds himself caught up in the inane action as both sides race to discover the secret to his Energizer Bunny like durability.
Where’s Charlton Heston when you need him to jump on-screen and scream, “It’s people! Bits and pieces of dead PEOPLE sewn together and jump started like a freaking car battery!” Oh, yeah. He’s dead…which is better off than this shuffling, semi-literate schlock of a flick.
The film is 91 minutes of agonizingly bad dialog culminating in a 15 minute sex scene between the Monster and Miranda Otto, the “High Queen of the Gargoyle Order”. This disgusting display of grotesque sexuality is an unholy cross between bestiality and necrophilia.
I suppose the director thought it would be clever to use Mötley Crüe’s 1987 hit, “Goyles, Goyles, Goyles” as the soundtrack to this frenzied coupling without procreative purpose. But in this reviewer’s opinion, the close-ups acted only to induce fits of projectile vomiting in the audience and make glaringly obvious that Victor Frankenstein was running woefully low on human tissue by the time he got to the Creature’s crotch. This was hands down the worst sex scene I have seen since “Ernest Saves Christmas II”, know what I mean?
Disjointed continuity and obtuse imagery in this film made it a bitch to follow. In one scene we have The Monster flailing his arms, screaming incoherently “Fire BAD!” while in the very next scene, he’s leaning up against a wall idly smoking a cigarette. The hackneyed humor similarly falls flat.
There were eighteen scenes of The Monster farting and a demon remarking, “Phew! Who died? Oh, right, you!” Still, these more successful bits had less to do with the writing than Danny Devito’s dry delivery. And a few mentionable media moments cannot make up for this collection of comedic crap cobbled together from inanimate bits and pieces of better cinema.
Rating art flicks like this is a tough task but I’ll try. I give this movie no thumbs up and a kick in the nuts. I give it no stars but five flaming bags of crap on the porch. It gets an “F” for entertainment value but an “A plus” in just pissing me off! Save your money for “Vampire Academy” which, of course, sucks, but at least you expected that going in.