I resisted seeing Gods and Monsters for quite
some time because I knew McKellan's performance of James Whale,
openly gay director of the first two Frankenstein movies,
perfectly captures a brave, witty, and elegant man. And I knew
that this wonderful man would kill himself during the movie. A
dilemma, for someone who always becomes unreasonably attached to
movie characters.
But I finally toughed it out back in late
February, and was overcome--not for the reason I expected, but
because Gods and Monsters portrays something that I am
irresistibly drawn to: the perfect death. Death when the only
choice left is to decide when to leave and then discover the
perfect moment to leave, usually after being given an unexpected
gift. The art is to make the moment the *most* perfect, to tie
the gift in believably, yet unexpectedly, to prior choices or
actions of the one who dies--to make the moment and the gift
appear from nowhere, yet tie everything together. I come unglued
at such moments. Perfect deaths happen very rarely in movies and
only slightly more often in books. (My first, and still favorite,
instance of it is in a book by Rosemary Sutcliffe, The Mark of
the Horse Lord).
Because Gods and Monsters provides James Whale
with a perfect death (at least by my standards), and because this
resonates so strongly within me, I have trouble focusing on the
details of the movie. The story is beautifully constructed to
portray not only Whale's final days, but to reveal the key
periods in his life in a believable fashion; the script is funny,
wise, and extraordinarily touching. The two people who spend his
last days with him--his housekeeper, Hannah, and his gardner,
Clayton--are given generous, but never distracting, attention.
Due homage is given to the look and feel of the
various times portrayed--the production and costume designs are
magnificent. Details of the 30s lawn party, Whale's home, the WWI
scenes, and even the nondescript bar where Clayton watches Bride
of Frankenstein are meticulously and lovingly presented. For some
reason I remember the colors of this movie vividly--the white of
Whale's suits, the blaze of garden flowers, the vivid contrast of
the bright daylight scenes with the muted, but never gloomy,
evening events.
Enough has been said about McKellan that there
is no need to add to it, save to mention that it is one of the
finest performances of the decade. I enjoyed Redgrave, but the
person who is not getting his due is Fraser, who I thought was
remarkably effective in a very difficult role. His work in the
pivotal scene is crucial to its credibility and he comes through
beautifully--in large part because of the fine job he did in
defining his character up to that moment.
A final note: I still tear up when I think
about the word written on the back of the Frankenstein drawing.
With the question mark.
