In 1957, Golden Age of Hollywood director James Whale was found dead -- a suicide
-- in the swimming pool of his Pacific Palisades home. By that point, the English
émigré director of some 21 feature films had not made a movie since he
retired from filmmaking to live the life of a gentleman painter in the early Forties.
Whale, who was an openly gay man in the urbane but closeted world of Hollywood in
the Thirties, is generally assumed to have been blackballed by the studios for his
sexual/professional imprudence. Although his roots were in the British stage, Whale
is best remembered for his stylish American horror gems Frankenstein, Bride of Frankenstein,
The Old Dark House,and The Invisible Man. But like the good doctor who created the
Frankenstein monster, Whale's creative reputation was overtaken by the iconic magnitude
of the creature he had spawned. Indeed, Bill Condon based his Gods and Monsters screenplay
on Christopher Bram's novel Father of Frankenstein. The story is a speculative account
of the final days in the life of James Whale, whose debilitating health due to a
recent stroke is presumed to be the cause of his suicide. The story invents the character
of Clayton Boone (Fraser), a buff, none-too-swift, ex-marine gardener to whom Whale
(McKellen) takes a fancy. The decidedly straight Boone is slow to catch on when Whale
invites him to pose for one of his paintings and to avail himself of the pool (one
of Whale's primary seduction aids). Yet the crux of the story emerges from the unlikely
bonds of friendship that grow between the two men. Boone stimulates memories long
dormant in Whale -- of such things as his impoverished childhood in England, the
horror of life in the trenches during WWI and the horrific death of his young soldier
lover, and the buzz of activity and petty drama that typified life on a movie set.
Boone delights in the warmth exhibited toward him by this new friend -- a famous
person and the father of Frankenstein, no less -- and responds to these overtures
of friendship with a newfound compassion and surprising sensitivity. Condon's film
also shows great sensitivity to the characters and events depicted here; it never
tramples on the privacy and dignity of the subject in question while using the film's
speculative structure as a source of biographical illumination -- what it lacks in
historical fact it makes up for with emotional realism. So much of the credit must
be laid at the feet of Ian McKellen, whose portrait of Whale is a study in acting
excellence. The character displays a range that goes from coy to pained, somber to
peckish, dapper to dilapidated, and tart to tortured. It is a performance that richly
deserves all the end-of-the-year kudos many of the critics groups have awarded it.
Against McKellen, Fraser's acting limitations become more noticeable; it seems like
another actor might have found dimensions to the character other than his ability
to bare his biceps and smile affably. As Whale's disapproving but lovingly attentive
uptight Teutonic housemaid, Lynn Redgrave is practically unrecognizable and gives
one of the great performances of her career. Though Gods and Monsters is full of
scenes and moments that are unforgettable (George Cukor's garden party is a real
time-capsule standout), there is an overly romantic quality to the film that makes
a narrative parallel between Whale's quest for the young man and the Frankenstein
monster's longing for a friend Ö or bride. It's a resonant idea but one that
reduces the director to the same typecasting he fought all his career. A wonderful
companion piece for Gods and Monsters would be Richard Kwietniowski's Love and Death
on Long Island, another intriguing film that came out in 1998 that concerns an older,
heterosexual British man's sudden, inexplicable yearning for a young, American, male
pop star. In that film, John Hurt and Jason Priestley perform an unpredictable pas
de deux, motivated by mysteriously compulsive needs that are never fully explained
or rationalized. Gods and Monsters instead seeks to make sense of a life hidden by
the self-imposed shadows of the lavender curtain and the inscrutabilities of suicide.
It's most revealing but ultimately conjecture.
--Marjorie Baumgarten
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