Conspiracy theorists might posit that January is when the movie industry deliberately sours audiences so that summer's merest uptick in popcorn entertainment value feels like a drought vanquished. Exhibit A in this argument could be the gray, dumb, bolt in the neck called "I, Frankenstein."
There's certainly no moviegoing reanimation in director Stuart Beattie's adaptation of
Scanning Eckhart's chiseled, self-serious mug for a little "I averted villagers with pickaxes for this?" humor proves futile. Cut to present day, and his updated action attire — hoodie, jeans, sensible haircut — reads angry soccer dad more than monster warrior. The pretty electrophysiologist (
What's left are shots swooping in and swooping out, and digitized figures in pre-programmed combat, with Mary Shelley thanked in the credits — for not rising from the dead to protest, one presumes.