Frankenstein’s Bloody Nightmare (2007)
Review by The Film Fiend
Unearthed Films, in case you didn’t already know, is the champion of obscure, unsung indie cinema, purposely setting their twisted sights on films that would never stand a chance in the American mainstream distribution marketplace. Though other companies claim to be the kings and queens of extreme horror and over-the-top action, you won’t find such entries as Andrey Iskanov’s Nails, Daisuke Yamanouchi’s Red Room, or Alvin Ecarma’s Lethal Force anywhere on their release schedules. If you think you’ve seen every nauseating full-length feature on the face of the planet, Unearthed will gladly put your iron stomach to the test.
However, everyone makes mistakes.
Case in point: John R. Hand’s ultra-trippy snoozefest Frankenstein’s Bloody Nightmare. Supposedly inspired by Mary Shelley’s classic tale of one man’s Faustian thirst to conquer the unknown, Nightmare strives to unsettle the viewer through the use of color-saturated visuals, a minimalistic electronic score, and a dash of good old-fashioned bloodshed. The end result, sadly, is uneven, unintelligible, and just plain boring. Staying awake until its painfully flaccid conclusion is a challenge I’d put to even the hardest of the hardcore insomniacs. How this thing ended up in Unearthed’s catalog is beyond my range of comprehension.
The picture attempts to follow the trials and tribulations of one Victor Karlstein, a young doctor who recently lost his girlfriend to the icy cold clutches of death. Distraught and slightly deranged, Victor and his Elephantitis-stricken sidekick immediately begin harvesting human body parts in order to bring his dearly-departed sweetheart back to life. This is pretty much an assumption, since I really couldn’t follow 90% of the sickly 70′s cinema-inspired visuals thrust crudely into my confused mug like an abstract stripper’s misshapen crotch. If I’ve missed any key plot points in this admittedly lackluster synopsis, feel free to blame the director.
While I hate to be the venomous prick who adds yet another miserable review to John R. Hand’s already bloated collection of critical raspberries, I suppose it’s inevitable. Frankenstein’s Bloody Nightmare has “film student thesis” written all over it in big, sloppy, child-like script. Just because you lensed your flick on Super 8 and overstuffed the monstrosity with calculated post-production gimmickry doesn’t necessarily make your flick an instant cult classic. Interesting visuals, I’m afraid, will only get you so far; any kid with a digital camera and a personal computer can construct this kind of nonsense over a couple of three-day weekends. Sad, but true.
Then again, perhaps I’ve missed the point entirely. Maybe I was too overcome with sleepy yawns and mental grocery lists to unravel the mystery of Frankenstein’s Bloody Nightmare. It wouldn’t be the first time a movie has gone completely over my remarkable skull, mind you, nor will it be the last. Of course, I’m not willing to give John R. Hand and his psychedelic ponderings the benefit of the doubt. Proponents of arthouse horror will likely defend this kind of garbage to their peyote-fueled graves, though I’m still unconvinced our retro-cool director even knows what message he was attempting to convey.
To be fair, Hand does seem to have a natural gift for direction — some of his shots are actually quite inspired. What kills this project instantly is its desire to be completely esoteric and outrageously bizarre. If you’re someone like Cronenberg or Lynch, men who actually know how to effectively deliver a manageable narrative, perhaps overloading your film with grain and gratuitous color correcting could be excused. Surreal filmmaking can result in some of the most powerful material on the planet, but only if the director knows how to tell a good story in-between bouts of feverish imagery.
All in all, Frankenstein’s Bloody Nightmare is a disaster. If it doesn’t instantly give you a throbbing headache, it will surely lull you into a coma before the half-hour mark. John R. Hand may have a natural gift for interesting visuals, but he’s still struggling as a storyteller. It kills me to deliver a bad write-up for a film that strives to do something different in order to separate itself from the never-ending onslaught of mediocre horror flicks, but I have to call them like I see them. Why Unearthed Films felt the need to add this selection to their superior canon of cinematic acquisitions is beyond me. But, as I stated earlier, everyone makes the occasional mistake.
Just ask John R. Hand.
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