Frankenstein – National Theatre Live

Stage on screen: it’s inevitable in this media soaked age that the Theatre would lay itself open to wider audience and let the cameras in to their private world. Is this the desperation of an opportunist star or is it the start of something extraordinary?

‘The National Theatre Live’ broadcasts live, via satellite, to arts venues around the globe; increasing their demographic, the arts are now not purely confined to London.  The theatre’s director, Nicholas Hytner reminisced: ‘ If I had been able to see Olivier’s National Theatre at my local cinema, I would have gone all of the time.’ but at £12 a ticket he’d of had to scrape together his pocket money. 

There are pangs of jealousy towards the audience sat in the theatre’s auditorium; you feel that child-like exclusion, you didn’t quite make the team so you’re left on the side lines – patronisingly made to believe you’re involved in something you fundamentally are not. The experience is different; you are not immersed in the sheer volume of sound and dimension of stage.

There is an uncertainty amongst the audience to, in this new phenomenon the general etiquettes remain unclear, so one is left unsure whether to clap at a bowing cast who will not hear them. The whole concept is still finding its feet, you can’t help feeling that the whole experience remains a little incomplete, but the excitement lies in the missing pieces. We can only wait and see how it will evolve and change the way we view live theatre, for better or for worse.     

The National’s Frankenstein is like no other, with Benedict Cumberbatch and Johnny Lee Miller alternating between the role of the creature and Frankenstein, the structure of the production is already making us question who the real monster is. 

The intense beginnings of the monster’s life as he slips like a foetus from his womb casing are immediately absorbing. As it writhed across the floor, bones breaking into place with the jarred fluidity of movement, every element of every limb seemed alive, awakening. This painstakingly thought out opening scene is a vivid reflection on the whole nature of the play. Everything appears effortlessly natural; the juxtaposition of a new life that is so large and disjointed, unravelling and learning is unquestionably realistic.   

Mary Shelly’s gothic masterpiece has been endlessly disfigured in modern day productions. The classic bolts through the neck and inane groans, stands upright and rigid in dated hammer horror constructions.

Danny Boyle’s production and Nick Dear’s adaptation granted Frankenstein his voice. The beauty of Shelly’s words and the ambiguity of the book’s scientific and psychological understanding have never before seemed so fresh and timeless.

Together they appear as the mad creators of this miraculous piece, a creation that is so absorbing, so powerful that you cannot tear your eyes away from it. They have re-mastered my interpretation of theatre and achieved something both profound and intelligent that captivates like no other. Finally, Frankenstien has been told how it was intended and that is the biggest accomplishment this performance could have earned – the respect of a truly brilliant literacy work.