Gesamtkunstwerk Frankenstein

What a beautiful, terrible work Nick Dear has written, An impactful look into what it is to be human . . . and inhuman. I have wanted to see the National Theatre's production of his Frankenstein since it was new. That was 2011. Because I like to go in like a virgin to new works, I purposefully avoided reading any reviews or listening to anyone except people saying, "You've GOT to see it."  So . . . finally . . . thirteen years after the fact, I got to sit down and watch it. Twice in fact.  Once last night, with Benedict Cumberbatch as The Monster and Jonny Lee Miller as Victor Frankenstein, then again this morning with those roles reversed. I found the events in my life between 2011 and now astonshingly relevant in experiencing Mr. Dear's take on Mrs. Shelley's novel. 

Now knowing anything of the play, I was unprepared for the difference between what I imagined it might be, and what it actually was.  Dear has given us a theatrical experience that is, by very definition, Gesamtkunstwerk. His Frankenstein calls not only for acting, but movement, choreography, dance, songs, pyrotechnics and spectacle. As to the last of these, Mark Tildesley's stage and set design is a work of wonder, allowing the multiple locations and interiors - laboratory, cabin, lakes, railroad, fields, estates, and mountains to appear and disappear seamlessly, packing its entire universe into two quickly passing hours . The audience is plunged - from the beginning -  directly into the story, as is the home audience experience through judicious camerawork. Director, Danny Boyle has strong, convincing and bold ideas about how it all should go and the results he inspires from his actors are in the "astonishing" range, with not a single weak link in his cast.

The first twenty minutes gives us the astonishing birth of The Monster, and within its first minute I found myself in tears - as I would be for most of the rest of the play. As The Monster, Benedict Cumberbatch surpassed pretty much his work in every role I'd previously seen him in - and all before uttering a word. I related to this creature, identified with him so strongly I felt as if watching of my own story taking place. As a recovering stroke and brain damage victim (god I hate that word), six years still later struggling with balance, movement, everything Cumberbatch did served as a reminder of the horrific processes of learning how to move, eat and drink on my own, the futile attempts at balance, use of limbs and digits, and most of all, to walk again. My frustration crushing, labored, pitiful movement, falls and failures all reflected in The Monster's every move.. But, so too was the dogged determination . . . the unrelenting persistence. For about eight minutes Cumberbatch overwhelms in a horrifying ballet of tortured movement, all punctuated by grunts, groans, screams and shouts.  It is devastating. 

It was not surprising to read afterward that although choreographed, Cumberbatch based his creature on his observing stroke victims in recovery.  I also learned his co-star and fellow Monster, Jonny Lee Miller based his on observing his two year old child. The differences between The Monsters keeps the story in place, but creates two very different experiences. Cumberbatch is more physical, twitching, flailing limbs,a rough elegance,  Miller's "quicker" with lots of drooling and stomping, a greater command of rapid speech . . . indeed, Miller's energy propels everything and everyone along at a quicker pace. After watching both actors in both roles, I can easily say I prefer each in the role I first saw him in. 

Mr. Miller presents Victor as a man at sea emotionally - a possibly spoiled, but not bad  fellow, no more equipped to handle his emotions than his creation, who,  when compared to, seems almost primatively. For some reason, along with the referenced Paradise Lost - I found myself thinking of Dickens, and what if his Scrooge (who I am NOT comparing to Victor) found himself facing his own trinity of ghosts, represented in one being. The interplay between both men - whichever role they are in - is like watching music.  

Dear sticks fairly close to Shelley's details (as best I remember - I need to revisit the book) taking every opportunity to open up its philosophies of the nature of man, our formations of societal structures, a hunger for (and rejection of?)  knowledge, our fears, rejection, loneliness . . . how love and kindness can be manipulated, and too easily stripped and replaced with cruelty and hate. .

Danny Doyle and company can be proud of what they have achieved here.  Everything - every single thing - about these performances convinces me Nick Dear's Frankenstein is one of the most beautiful, heartbreaking dramas created for the stage in the last 50 years. Its language, its movement and music are profound and moving. So  too, are its silences. 

Elementary? More like "by the numbers."

With much fanfare and fury (as in splashy summer ads airing all summer long) CBS delivered a standard, by-the-book American television mystery, with not altogether unsuccessful stabs at being wry and witty. Using different names for these characters the network could have easily added this to its cadre of Mentalist, CSI, mystery-esque dramas. So, why then this desperate (and blatant) attempt to ally itself with the adventures of Sherlock Holmes? Unlike the recent BBC series (a splendid, breathtakingly daredevil approach to updating a classic), it would appear CBS is employing “Sherlock Holmes” as little more than a brand name, playing a safe, but weak card in the television entertainment game.

Jonny Lee Miller would make a splendid Sherlock in his own right and presents here a modernized Holmes with an appealing blend of quirky self-assuredness, petulant child (with enough allusions to his demanding father to make the old man a central character) with flashes of bravado and a yearning to be misunderstood. His in your face bluster is counterbalanced (a bit overcautiously) by the timidity of Dr. Watson, whose character has undergone sexual reassignment, and is now in the guise of an attractive female physician. Having fallen from grace herself, the pair emit a palpable chemistry; two walking wounded/damaged souls trying to find a place of trust, comfort and perhaps, understanding. The writers’ challenge here is to find a way to take a detour from the traditional (and naturally occurring) sexual tension without turning the pair into lovebirds. Sadly, it's that one thing American television almost never succeeds in doing, preferring to go for the easiest (and often lowest) common denominator.

I'd imagine it's already a difficult enough task to transfer Holmes not only to the 21st century, but to Manhattan, but some of the elements in last night's episode stretched the possibilities to the point of incredulity. A nice touch regarding Watson's purchasing the pair opera tickets, with Sherlock's response a passing nod to those not only familiar with opera in general, but difficult avant garde opera at that (György Ligeti's Le grand Macabre). Sadly, the operatic link disintegrated at the opera house when Holmes, during the love duet of Tristan und Isolde bolts down the aisles shouting for Watson, clumsily climbs over the audience, insists on having a conversation during the performance, then commits the ultimate sin, making a phone call from his seat. Right. That could happen. (Any opera buff knows the man would've likely been tackled to the ground and hauled off to the curb before such a disturbance could've been completed.)

Needing a Sherlock Holmes' fix, I was hopeful (though admittedly anxious) about Elementary. Now, I'm merely disappointed.