Metacritic reviews

Writers Steph Lady and Frank Darabont (The Shawshank Redemption) retain much of the source's action and all of its spirit, but still make the work speak to our age.

Mary Shelley's Frankenstein may not be the definitive version of the 1817 novel, and the director likely attempted more than is practical for a two-hour film, but overambition is preferable to the alternative, especially if it results - as in this case - in something more substantial than Hollywood's typical, fitfully entertaining fluff.

I admired the scenes with De Niro so much I'm tempted to give Mary Shelley's Frankenstein a favorable verdict. But it's a near miss. The Creature is on target, but the rest of the film is so frantic, so manic, it doesn't pause to be sure its effects are registered.

Sumptuous to look at, with some decent performances but Branagh's attempt at this gothic horror just doesn't hold together convincingly and fails to engage.

By using the author's name [Branagh] sets us up for something closer to the text of the Gothic thriller than James Whale's classic 1931 horror film. But Branagh's version is too respectful and ultimately, well, lifeless.

Branagh's two Shakespeare films have been triumphs-meaty, moving and fun. Bard-less, the director flounders. His Frankenstein gives off the same hollow echo that Dead Again did, the same mixture of stylistic flair and insincerity.

Even if the vivid Whale/Karloff version had never been made, this treatment of the Shelley novel would be a loud and tacky disappointment.

Not frightening, just silly.

Far from the definitive version of the tale, this lavish but overwrought melodrama is in many ways less compelling than even a recent made-for-cable movie and a 1973 miniseries starring Michael Sarrazin that was less faithful to the source material.

All too faithfully adapted by Kenneth Branagh, the film is the last thing that one would expect of a contemporary highbrow version of this ageless horror classic. It is, in a word, dullsville.