There are only two even half-good reasons to watch this limp, atypical version of the Frankenstein story. And both of them can be found inside – just – Kate O'Mara's blouse.
It's rubbish, pure and simple, all the more surprisingly so considering a) it was written and directed by Jimmy Sangster, one of the half dozen most important names in the history of Hammer films; and b) it has an absolutely top-notch cast: as well as Ralph Bates (who Hammer were grooming to take over Peter Cushing's mantle; never happened) we get uber-Hammer babe Veronica Carlson, the aforementioned Miss O'Mara – as gorgeous, pouting and shapely a starlet as ever graced a Hammer flick (she can't act for toffee, but who cares?) – the criminally underrated and underused Jon Finch, and the brilliant Dennis Price.
Sangster's screenplay is weak. It tries hard to be funny, but succeeds only in being puerile. And his direction is workmanlike at best. There is little real action, certainly not the sort of action you expect from a Hammer Frankenstein movie. The gore quotient is minimal, and the naked bazooka count zero – odd, considering female nudity was Hammer's big USP in the early 70s, and Sangster's only other directorial effort for Hammer, Lust for a Vampire, was replete with a multitude of heaving bosoms. (Apparently Kate O'Mara refused to appear topless, which makes you wonder how she got the part in the first place, but never mind.) Most of the DIY brain surgery takes place off screen, and the monster, played by muscleman and soon-to-be Darth Vader David Prowse, is about as frightening as an ice cream cone. He's supposedly been stitched together in the usual way, from assorted local unfortunates, but for some reason he has the body of a Greek god. The only concession to his patchwork creation is stitching scars that look like they've been drawn on with lipstick.
The plot isn't worth outlining – Sangster clearly didn't spend much time on it, so neither will I – and there are some annoyingly stupid bits of business which mean that the film doesn't work, even on its own jokey level. (For example, the monster isn't strong enough to pull his shackles out of the wall, but he makes matchwood out of a solid oak door.) Unless you're a Hammer completist I'd give this one a miss. If it does happen to come your way, as it did mine, on satellite TV late one night, try and stay awake for Kate O'Mara's appearance in a see-through nightie, then switch off. (She gets killed off soon after anyway. Probably died of shame.)
It's rubbish, pure and simple, all the more surprisingly so considering a) it was written and directed by Jimmy Sangster, one of the half dozen most important names in the history of Hammer films; and b) it has an absolutely top-notch cast: as well as Ralph Bates (who Hammer were grooming to take over Peter Cushing's mantle; never happened) we get uber-Hammer babe Veronica Carlson, the aforementioned Miss O'Mara – as gorgeous, pouting and shapely a starlet as ever graced a Hammer flick (she can't act for toffee, but who cares?) – the criminally underrated and underused Jon Finch, and the brilliant Dennis Price.
Sangster's screenplay is weak. It tries hard to be funny, but succeeds only in being puerile. And his direction is workmanlike at best. There is little real action, certainly not the sort of action you expect from a Hammer Frankenstein movie. The gore quotient is minimal, and the naked bazooka count zero – odd, considering female nudity was Hammer's big USP in the early 70s, and Sangster's only other directorial effort for Hammer, Lust for a Vampire, was replete with a multitude of heaving bosoms. (Apparently Kate O'Mara refused to appear topless, which makes you wonder how she got the part in the first place, but never mind.) Most of the DIY brain surgery takes place off screen, and the monster, played by muscleman and soon-to-be Darth Vader David Prowse, is about as frightening as an ice cream cone. He's supposedly been stitched together in the usual way, from assorted local unfortunates, but for some reason he has the body of a Greek god. The only concession to his patchwork creation is stitching scars that look like they've been drawn on with lipstick.
The plot isn't worth outlining – Sangster clearly didn't spend much time on it, so neither will I – and there are some annoyingly stupid bits of business which mean that the film doesn't work, even on its own jokey level. (For example, the monster isn't strong enough to pull his shackles out of the wall, but he makes matchwood out of a solid oak door.) Unless you're a Hammer completist I'd give this one a miss. If it does happen to come your way, as it did mine, on satellite TV late one night, try and stay awake for Kate O'Mara's appearance in a see-through nightie, then switch off. (She gets killed off soon after anyway. Probably died of shame.)