Frankenstein

I would say that the price of the ticket was well-worth the copious amounts of Benedict-bum alone, but that would be purely stupid, because that would imply I even knew he'd be naked for the performance in the first place.

All I can say is: I now know what Benedict Cumberbatch looks like naked. There is no smugness in that, though; he was covered in makeup, foetal in appearance, struggling to his feet, limbs trembling, terrifying, uncomfortable, strange. And also, it was in front of a sold-out audience. Although I suppose I could at least take comfort in the fact my seat guaranteed merely a one-metre radius from him when he'd run down the stairs. Heh.

Could I say it is the mark of a great actor when someone like me, so utterly fangirlish, so utterly shallow, completely forgot about my unhealthy love for Cumberbatch because I was so engrossed in his performance as the monster itself? At some points in time, I did remember: I'm seeing him in person! Awesome! But for the most part, I was captivated by the story.

Cumberbatch truly shone in his role as Frankenstein's monster. As Frankenstein's monster, he was perfectly tragic; brutal, vindictive, bitter, yet never, never unsympathetic or hateful. A creature born pure into the world, only to be rejected by humanity, and hate just as he believes humans do. He plays the creature as similar to that of a child, beginning to grasp concepts of morality, never quite understanding them, attempting to adhere to them, but falling so astray. Even when he debases, you hate him not; rather, you hate what others have made him become. And yet, even then, you realize: in the same position, you would have done the same. You would have shunned him, beat him, cast him out. What does that make us, then?

I suppose it may be in part intentional direction from Danny Boyle, in part my over-analyzing nature, but I found Frankenstein to be so complex, so tragic, touching on many issues (yes, even parenting!). Even typical riddles - 'who is the man and who is the monster?' - were handled in ways that made me applaud internally. How ironic that Frankenstein admonishes his creation as nothing but a failed experiment, barely human, having no rights to anything, yet is later taught by the very creature what love, the most human of all emotions, is?

Money very well-spent. I'd try to calculate how many pounds I paid for every minute of witnessing Benedict's bum, but there certainly are limits to my fangirling.