A Monster of a Misfire
Every few years, someone in Hollywood gets the bright idea to “reimagine” Frankenstein—usually while clutching a cigar and muttering phrases like “gritty reboot” and “modern relevance.” Victor Frankenstein is one such act of cinematic necromancy. Directed by Paul McGuigan and written by Max Landis (yes, that Max Landis), this 2015 film drags Mary Shelley’s immortal story out of its grave only to beat it to death with quips, lightning, and misplaced bromance.
The film asks: what if Frankenstein were told from Igor’s point of view? The answer, apparently, is that no one asked for this and everyone regrets it.
Hunchback of No Charm
Daniel Radcliffe, bless his Harry Potter heart, plays Igor—formerly a nameless, hunchbacked circus slave with an encyclopedic knowledge of human anatomy, which is never explained but sure, why not. Within the film’s first twenty minutes, James McAvoy’s Victor Frankenstein drains the “pus sack” from Igor’s back (yes, you read that right), straightens his spine, gives him a fashionable vest, and christens him with a new name. It’s My Fair Lady, if Eliza Doolittle were covered in cysts and social services didn’t exist.
From there, Igor and Victor form the least convincing friendship since Batman and Superman. They bicker, they bond, they resurrect dead animals, and they share the kind of lingering eye contact that suggests either mutual respect or the world’s weirdest meet-cute.
McAvoy, to his credit, doesn’t so much act as detonate. He shouts every line like a man auditioning for Les Misérables: The Science Edition. His Frankenstein is less tragic genius, more manic energy drink mascot. You half expect him to scream “SCIENCE!” and explode.
Max Landis, Patron Saint of Missed Opportunities
This film’s biggest monster isn’t Prometheus—it’s the script. Landis writes like he’s terrified you’ll get bored, stuffing every scene with forced banter, clumsy exposition, and anachronistic sass. The tone lurches from gothic melodrama to steampunk buddy comedy with the grace of a reanimated moose.
We’re told this is a tale of redemption and creation, yet every line sounds like it was written by someone who skimmed the Frankenstein Wikipedia page during a sugar crash. When the movie tries to be profound, it feels like a TED Talk given by a man whose PowerPoint is just pictures of lightning bolts.
The dialogue is so obsessed with being clever that it forgets to be human. At one point, Radcliffe earnestly declares, “I am a man!” and you almost expect McAvoy to reply, “No, you’re a plot device.”
The Romance That Flatlined
Every gothic horror film needs a romantic subplot, and Victor Frankenstein provides one, though “romantic” might be too generous. Jessica Brown Findlay plays Lorelei, a circus acrobat who falls in love with Igor after he stops having scoliosis. Her role exists solely to remind Igor that he’s human and to make Victor jealous, because nothing says high drama like a love triangle between a corpse doctor, his assistant, and an ex–trapeze artist.
Lorelei’s function in the story can be summarized as:
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Get rescued.
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Look worried.
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Tell the men to stop playing God.
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Get ignored.
Her character is as underwritten as the creatures Victor builds—pretty, well-stitched, and utterly lifeless.
The Inspector Who Believed Too Much
Enter Andrew Scott as Inspector Turpin, the world’s most devout detective and the only character who seems aware he’s in a horror movie. Scott, fresh off playing Moriarty in Sherlock, spends the film glaring through one eye (the other gets fried off later) and muttering about God’s wrath. He’s the kind of zealot who would arrest Jesus for unauthorized resurrection.
He exists mostly to chase Victor around London, shouting things like “This is an abomination!” while the audience wonders if he’s talking about the film itself.
A Monster by Committee
Eventually, Victor and Igor flee to Scotland to finish building Prometheus, their magnum opus of questionable ethics and poor special effects. The creature’s big reveal should be terrifying—lightning, thunder, hubris! Instead, it looks like someone tried to make the Hulk out of wet cement and bad decisions.
Prometheus lumbers around for approximately five minutes before being stabbed in both hearts. Yes, two hearts. The script makes a big deal about this anatomical detail, perhaps hoping no one will notice the creature has less personality than the average IKEA end table.
There’s no tragedy, no horror, no poetry—just a bunch of expensive CGI flailing around while everyone screams over the sound of gears and regret.
When Science Meets Shouting
The film tries to position itself as a bromantic redemption arc—Victor as the obsessive genius, Igor as his moral compass. But instead of emotional depth, we get sweaty melodrama and endless yelling about ethics. Frankenstein and Igor argue about playing God roughly once every seven minutes, just in case you forgot the theme.
Their relationship, which should be layered and tragic, instead plays like a toxic friendship you’d mute in a group chat. By the time Victor tells Igor he’s his “greatest creation,” you half expect Igor to file for a restraining order.
Visuals by Discount Tim Burton
Visually, the film is a mixed bag of moody potential and industrial clutter. Every scene looks like it’s been color-graded through a puddle of absinthe. The London of Victor Frankenstein is perpetually raining, perpetually smoking, and perpetually full of extras who look confused about why they’re there.
The production design desperately wants to be Sherlock Holmes (the Guy Ritchie version), but instead it feels like Hot Topic Presents: The Enlightenment. There are gears on everything—machines, walls, possibly even the extras. By the third act, you half expect the end credits to be sponsored by SteamPunkCon 2014.
The Final Stitch-Up
By the end, everyone’s either dead, reformed, or ready for the sequel that mercifully never happened. Victor flees to the Scottish countryside to “continue his research,” which is cinematic shorthand for “please, dear God, don’t make another one.” Igor walks off into the sunset with Lorelei, whose main accomplishment is surviving the script.
The closing letter—Victor’s grand apology to Igor—is meant to be emotional, but after two hours of gothic chaos, it feels like getting a Hallmark card from a war criminal.
Final Verdict: 3/10 – It’s Alive… and It Shouldn’t Be
Victor Frankenstein is what happens when you take a timeless horror story about man’s struggle with creation and turn it into a steampunk bromance with daddy issues. It’s loud, messy, and emotionally hollow—a movie that mistakes manic energy for meaning and CGI lightning for soul.
James McAvoy screams, Daniel Radcliffe broods, and somewhere, Mary Shelley spins in her grave fast enough to power the lab equipment.
If you’re in the mood for a Frankenstein adaptation, watch Young Frankenstein for laughs or Frankenstein (1931) for greatness. But if you watch Victor Frankenstein (2015), be warned: it’s less “modern Prometheus” and more “modern catastrophe.”
At least the monster had the decency to die quickly.
