Story of the night that Mary Shelley gave birth to the horror classic “Frankenstein.” Disturbed drug induced games are played and ghost stories are told one rainy night at the mad Lord Byron’s country estate.
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Latter-day Russell that, despite a milieu that should fit like a glove, proves to be little more than an over-lubricated flow of screamed acting and pounding pop-video sensibilities that just about crushes the ghoulish gothic potential. A barnstorming brew that splutters out of life halfway through.
This is what happens at the cool kids party. Mandatory copulation and poetry. Dramatic flourishes abound. And always that creepy Polidori kid. Meanwhile Shelley draws tits and eyes. Tits galore. Too bad Sands isn't up for the role. Richardson steals the show. She died too young. Like Byron.