This mid-thirties MGM exercise in horror is a visual treat, as directed by the great Karl Freund, who was better known as a cinematographer. The sets are gorgeous, the camera angles and compositions no less stunning, and on a purely technical and visual level the film is a tour de force, and in its way a masterpiece. Unfortunately the script gets a little, well, batty, and one can never get away from the improbability of the story, which concerns a concert pianist who loses his hands as the result of a train wreck, only to have them replaced with those of a murderer by an insane surgeon who's in love with his wife and keeps a wax statue of her in his house. This undoubtedly sounds more fun than it is, but the movie takes itself rather seriously, and is too slow-paced and sincere to be camp. Had it been directed by James Whale, who surely would have had Dwight Frye and Edward Van Sloan on hand to give it a little pizazz, it might have worked better. Freund's directorial style is languid, and he conspicuously lacks humor, which this sort of tale requires. He did a magnificent job with The Mummy, where his lugubrious sensibility was perfectly suited to the material, which concerned the living dead, but here is is dealing with people who are very much alive, and sparks are definitely indicated, and yet never present.
On the other hand, Peter Lorre is brilliant as the mad and wonderfully named Dr. Gogol, and he dominates the film with his usual schizophrenic authority, as he seems to hear voices and see images in the darnedest places. Frances Drake is stunning as the object of his affections, but is a rather colorless actress, and a tad matronly, suggesting a youthful and pretty Margaret Dumont, which is to say she's aristocratic type, lacking the coarse, magnetic beauty that would drive a man mad. Were I an earl I can well imagine wanting to make Miss Drake my wife, but for the life of me I can't imagine chasing her all over town, as Gogol does. Colin Clive is surprisingly uninteresting as the pianist who loses his hands, and gains another's. And he looks awful. A mere four years had passed since he had first played Dr. Frankenstein. It seems more like forty. The smaller roles are nicely limned by, among others, Billy Gilbert, as an autograph hound, Ed Brophy as Rollo, the knife thrower, and Ted Healy, former honcho of the Three Stooges, and now a solo act. Now if only Moe, Larry and Curly had showed up this movie might have been something.
On the other hand, Peter Lorre is brilliant as the mad and wonderfully named Dr. Gogol, and he dominates the film with his usual schizophrenic authority, as he seems to hear voices and see images in the darnedest places. Frances Drake is stunning as the object of his affections, but is a rather colorless actress, and a tad matronly, suggesting a youthful and pretty Margaret Dumont, which is to say she's aristocratic type, lacking the coarse, magnetic beauty that would drive a man mad. Were I an earl I can well imagine wanting to make Miss Drake my wife, but for the life of me I can't imagine chasing her all over town, as Gogol does. Colin Clive is surprisingly uninteresting as the pianist who loses his hands, and gains another's. And he looks awful. A mere four years had passed since he had first played Dr. Frankenstein. It seems more like forty. The smaller roles are nicely limned by, among others, Billy Gilbert, as an autograph hound, Ed Brophy as Rollo, the knife thrower, and Ted Healy, former honcho of the Three Stooges, and now a solo act. Now if only Moe, Larry and Curly had showed up this movie might have been something.