Netflixable? Guillermo del Toro and Mary Shelley’s “Frankenstein”

Guillermo del Toro’s “Frankenstein” is Gothic horror rendered in the grandest strokes.

The expansive, baroque settings are grandeur incarnate, with grandiose performances pitched to fill every pixel of the Grand Guignol frame that the scarlet, grey and gloomy green backdrops do not.

Where Robert Eggers’ “Nosferatu” was a younger filmmaker’s homage to one of the cornerstones of horror, del Toro’s take on Mary Shelley’s horror epic is a mature master’s contemplative, considered appreciation of a work that still has something to say to humanity two hundred years after it was published.

“Only Monsters Play God” is added to his film’s full title. That hints at the opera without song he’s made out of it, profound and sentimental and smart enough to recognize no modern interpretation of a scientist absorbed with humanity’s obsession with longer and longer life would be satisfying without a Byronic fatalism the Oscar winning director is old enough to understand.

Eternal life denies “death, the one remedy to all pain.”

Oscar Isaac is our wild-haired genius, raised to pursue science and be heedless of most anything else by his commanding, demanding and unsentimental Swiss man-of-science father, Baron Frankenstein (Charles Dance).

But young Victor’s motivation crossed into mania the night he say his mother bleed out in childbirth. His obsession with ending death has him experimenting and shocking the Edinburgh university where he teaches, and his ranting, theatrical defense of his “I would have command over the forces of life and DEATH” Jeremiad gets him fired.

But an onlooker at his faculty inquisition is his salvation. Harlander (Christoph Waltz) is there to bring him news of his brother, William (Felix Kammerer). He’s engaged to marry Harlander’s niece Elizabeth (Mia Goth). And he’s heard of Victor Frankenstein’s “mad” experiments and wants to underwrite them.

As the story is framed within a Danish polar expedition’s encounter with a towering, cowled “monster” whom they cannot kill, with battered and bloodied Victor there to confess when the captain (Lars Mikkelsen) asks “What manner of devil made him?” we know how this turned out.

That’s the beauty of this retelling of a timeworn tale. We know the plot, the characters, the themes and the subtexts. Writer-director del Toro introduces just enough novelty and an unexpected turn or two — one must leave narrative breathing room for Maggie Gyllenhaal’s just-as-anticipated “The Bride” of Frankenstein film next spring — to make the story “new.”

Our monster (Jacob Elordi, who first gained fame in “The Kissing Booth” and broke out in “Euphoria”) isn’t mute. He talks. “VICTOR” he shouts, before finding a shortcut to learning a philosopher’s vocabulary and mindset.

There are no villagers with pitchforks. Danish sailors will have to do. Victor’s great love here is (somewhat) unrequited, his passion for his brother’s intended. But in the best Mel Brooks tradition, we see the la-BOR-a-tory designed and installed in an abandoned “public works” (water pumping) tower left unfinished by the many wars of 19th century Europe.

And what do wars provide in plentitude? Fresh corpses to dissect, dismember and piece together for “galvanic” (electrical) reanimation, the doctor is told by his arms-dealing sponsor Harlander.

The casting could not be better. Isaac devours the screen with his rages and touches with his late-act epiphanies. Elordi, hired to give Alexander Skarsgaard a break from famous horror roles, brings a soulful turn to our cursed “monster.” Goth’s Euro-accent is never unsteady enough to deny the fact that as a horror icon (“Pearl,””X,” “Suspiria”) she belongs here more than most anybody else.

Waltz’s casting pretty much guarantees that Harlander has an “angle” he’s playing.

Mikkelsen, brother of Mads, brings gravitas and a hint of megalomania to the captain who hears both sides of this tale while trapped in a sailing ship in the polar ice.

And Dance, draped in a cape big enough to hold every actor who ever played “The Phantom of the Opera” all at once, is simply magnificent — vulpine malevolence incarnate and a mean man with a mission, to see that his science is served and continued by his oldest son.

I wasn’t crazy about the hoary “Let me tell you my story” framing device. Having two characters launch the flashbacks is just cumbersome. The turns towards sentiment are undermotivated, and even at two and a half hours in running time, the shifts in tone and point of view play as abrupt.

And any thriller that leans on CGI elk and wolves has cut corners in ways that can take you straight out of the movie, if only for a scene or three.

But “Frankenstein” is beautiful to look at and thoughtful enough to make one ponder its two hundred year old themes and warnings anew.

And if young Mr. Eggers and Ari Aster (“Hereditary”) figure the world of smart horror is their oyster, the Mexican master del Toro reminds us that the smart money — even a Netflix blank check — is always bet on him.

Rating: R, graphic bloody violence, nudity

Cast:: Oscar Isaac, Jacob Elordi, Mia Goth, Christoph Waltz, Felix Kammerer, Lars Mikkelsen and Charles Dance

Credits: Scripted and directed by Guillermo del Toro, based on the novel by Mary Shelley. A Netflix release.

Running time: 2:32

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Movie Previews: So how “real” will Fuqua’s “Michael” Jackson bio pic or Netflix’s “King of Pop” get?

Seems like this would be the most challenging music biopic of them all to keep honest for a  deep dive.

An NPR program a few years back tackled the subject of Michael Jackson and why Black people have been disinclined to turn away from his, pedophilia, publicity stunts, sham marriages, skin lightening and the whole freak show be damned.

But if you don’t deal with those dark corners of his personality and psychology, you’re “whitewashing” him in the worst way.

This looks triumphalist, a fantasia sanitizing the image, like Baz L’s “Elvis.”

Would that play? Because swinging and missing at an honest take on MJ would be cringe beyond belief

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Movie Review: Dolph and Michael Jai White roll their eyes at the Dork who says he’s “the best” — “Exit Protocol”

You’d think these sorts of things would be figured out at a table read, if not in the audition.

Give your leading man his pages, make him read some of the fifth rate Raymond Chandler “tough guy” voice-over narration you have in mind.

“I only kill wolves to protect the sheep…I’m the BEST…I AM the ‘Exit Protocol.'”

Do you believe it? Do you believe him? Does he have the presence to pull off being “the best” hit man out there? An assassin’s assassin?

Scott Martin wrote, directed and acted in a Lou Diamond Phillips, Patric, Danny Trejo and Michael Paré B-movie Western titled “Big Kill” a few years back. Perhaps that’s where the delusion that he could carry a thriller was born.

But even a B/C movie like “Exit Protocol” demands a lead who won’t make the viewer feel embarrassed for veteran character actors Dolph Lundgren and Michael Jai White.

“Protocol” is a terrible script terribly conceived, directed and acted. Every time the phrase “the best” turns up we grimace in recognition that nothing here merits that phrase.

Hit man movies and those pretentious enough to label their killer an “assassin” because there’s no union rules that say they can’t are, to a one, “researched” by watching other hit man movies. Such figures are rarer than cultured, educated and erudite serial killers who love chianti and fava beans. Outside of the movies, they don’t exist.

And this nonsense of the “hitman who hunts hitmen” is totally a fictional and filmic invention.

So by design, these movies, from “Hitman” on down the line, grow dumber with every iteration. And if you don’t have an aged Pierce Brosnan or Liam Neeson or Wesley Snipes or whoever in the lead, you’re lost before you start, condemned to waste the viewer’s time.

Our contract killer Sam Hayden (Martin) narrates and narrates about being “the best” “assassin of assasins,” and how killing this or that “mark” is him doing “the world a favor.”

But “Section 8” screenwriter Chad Law and Martin do everything in their power to show us “the best” is just in his head. We meet Hayden during a botched “contract” in a church, where he’s given away the element of surprise to lecture his quarry. He shoots a lot and misses a lot.

This is repeated every time he has a hit his mob intermediary (J.B. Yowell, better suited to selling used cars, but only in a dealership his daddy owns) assigns him.

Screw that silencer on, pull the trigger and miss and miss.

Until, of course, you inexplicably befriend a grizzled killer (Lundgren, lumbering like Frankenstein’s butler Lurch these day) and have to shoot your way past legions of masked, tac-geared-up murderers. Those guys they never miss.

“Black Dynamite” White is brought in to assassinate the assassin, and the assassin assigned to kill the assassin. White tries to keep things professional, but the disappointment shows. Martin’s wife Stephanie Beran plays Wicked, another killer, because of course she does.

Listening to this dialogue and mulling over this half-assed plotting you don’t have to go to the screenwriter’s IMDb page to know how much he likes chewing gum. You can just picture it.

And director Shane Dax Taylor isn’t up to improving anything that was written or any of the acting or the drab uncinematic New Mexico locations.

Much of this crew has worked together before on similar fare (“The Best Man” is also a hitman movie), so it’s not like they didn’t know their leading man was no leading man. They’re just churning this junk out on a budget that guarantees it’ll sell, quality be damned.

So no, that’s nothing that could be discovered or corrected at a table read.

Rating: R, violence, profanity

Cast: Scott Martin, Dolph Lundgren, Charlotte Kirk, Lina Maya, J.B. Yowell, Stephanie Beran and Michael Jai White.

Credits: Directed by Shane Dax Taylor, scripted by Chad Law. A Saban release.

Running time: 1:24

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Classic Film Review: Diane Keaton’s lone doc directing credit, “Heaven” (1987) earns a restoration/re-release

The recent passing of Oscar winning actress Diane Keaton is reason enough to revisit one of her few directing credits, the lone documentary on her resume.

“Heaven,” which she completed and Island Pictures released back in 1987, when Keaton was at her Hollywood peak, is a playful, dizzy reflection of the woman herself — quirky and curious and fun, with flashes of insight and wry delight.

She made a film on a subject about which no one knows anything and thus everyone is an expert. So there are no Archbishops or Popes or Dalai Lamas weighing in here.

In a room artfully lit with architecture-mimicking shadows (in Palm Springs, apparently) Keaton questions some Protestant preachers, yes, and a rabbi is in the credits. There are Catholics in the ranks, but nobody in a collar appears on camera. Instead, she serves up samples of theologians and pastors from TV appearances, many of them vehement in their certitude.

Why question those who’re sure they have answers — “The New Jerusalem is 5000 times the height of New York,” the Bible says, according to one televangelist — when you can get family members, friends, hippies and hipsters, questioners and the curious, Salvation Army footsoldiers, Boy Scouts and boxing promoter Don King to speak on the great imponderables?

“Do you believe in heaven?” “Are you afraid to die?” “Can heaven be here on Earth?”

Every “expert,” even the questioning ones, picks a hill to die on.

“God is NOT a woman,” a bearded evangelist insists. “Heaven is an orgasm” a beau says in front of his giggling, blushing intended. “People never look in the sky,” one very old little old lady suggests. “There are SIGNS in the sky, Diane!”

Those “certain” they know can be angry or exasperated, and self-revealing in other ways. Belief has never been summed up better than by the lay preacher who says this.

“God likes to reward ignorance for ignorance’s sake.” The dumber you are, the more fervently you believe?

That was kind of the point in the Falwellian Reaganarchy of 1987 — mockery. In finding so many disparate points of view, from the devout breaking into song and quoting Scripture to the questioning demanding “proof” and contending with the circular logic of just whom the burden of proof lies with — believers or those who doubt — Keaton digs into layers of sometimes amusing superstition and belief and prods those who admit not having any answers beyond hopes and fantasies.

Nobody is identified on camera, putting every “expert” on a level playing field.

Working with editor Paul Barnes, Keaton excerpts decades of cinematic visions of the afterlife — “Green Pastures,” Astaire and Rogers “in heaven…dancing cheek to cheek” in “Top Hat,” David Niven and others riding that “Stairway to Heaven” and Spencer Tracy’s “A Guy Named Joe” wading across a fog-floored soundstage into the afterlife.

By the third act, the sense of mocking those with simple beliefs, pro or con, and the bickering recedes into the background and the film turns poignant, an effect enhanced by the fact that Keaton herself just died. That seems like the perfect moment for Sam Cooke to sing his Gospel hit, “That’s Heaven to Me.” And it still is.

Rating: PG-13, profanity, homophobic slurs

Cast: Don King, Victoria Sellers, Kenny Ostin, Abram Christ, Jacob Christ, Pastor L.D. Shaw, Evangelist Robert Hanan, Ruben Ben David, Pinkietessa Braithwaite, many others

Credits: Directed by Diane Keaton. An Island Pictures release re-issued by Lightyear.

Running time: 1:19

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Christmas comes early? For a Miyazaki fan, you betcha

Can’t wait to read and review the new book by Nicolas Rapold.

Great anime is always a grand escape, like visiting a museum where the artwork tells a tale.

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Documentary Review: A “Caterpillar” figures a change in Eye Color will Make him a Butterfly

“Caterpillar” presents itself as a gay man’s documentary journey of self-discovery, when it’s really about body dysphoria/dysmorphia and faddish cosmetic surgery taken to its extreme.

David Taylor, a Miami hairdresser is biracial, wrestling with a troubled childhood, acceptance and obsessive dissatisfaction with the way he looks. He dotes on his mother as he suggests something he’s about to do to improve his “confidence,” “feel good about myself” and change the trajectory of his life.

But his tolerant “in her way” mother lets him know that she gave birth to a “good looking man,” and no “cutting” of any sort will be tolerated. No “cut your penis” removal, no “boobs,” nothing like that. This hurts his feelings, but that’s not what he has in mind anyway.

David wants Avatar eyes.

There’s a company — BrightOcular — in India doing these implants that give recipients other-worldly eye colors. It’s a natural place for this sort of sketchy “cosmetic” short-cut, being a nation that worships beautiful pop stars and actors, many of whom have otherworldly bright eyes — most of them gifted on them since birth — and a country barely removed from Third World standards for medical oversight.

David buries himself in social media endorsements and online ads — this or that “influencer” who’s traveling there to have this “totally safe” procedure done, giving them “those beautiful eyes that will hypnotize.”

David and others from all over the world plead for the chance to have this done, and when he somehow is offered this service “free,” in exchange for online endorsements, he meets men and women from many cultures and races also anxious for this “life changing” surgery.

A Jamaican New York Princess complains of the hard life that led up to her free-spending present day.

“What can I be content with? Just MORE!”

An underwear model (male) and women who have had botox, dental — Go to BRAZIL. “It’s just the best!” — and other “work” done burble away at this latest thing they consider “worth the risk.”

The medical consultations in India, which our filmmaker sits in on, are blunt.

“This is just fashion,” an opthomalogist warns. And there are side effects. “Your vision is more important than what we are doing here.”

Some years back, NPR slipped a “hot new trend in LA” fake story in one of its April Fool’s Day news programs. “Belly button removal is all the rage,” they lied, for laughs. The next day I had colleagues at the major newspaper where I worked come up and gush about the hoax, with even the native Angelinos on staff who’d heard it convinced it was real.

That’s kind of what we’re dealing with here. If you can imagine it as something people would pay to “improve” their appearance and be among the first to plunge into a fad, “influencers” gay and straight — narcissists to a one — will happily and heedlessly plunge right in.

A documentary is only as good as its subject. And while filmmaker Liza Mandelup had near total access to David’s self-absorbed life and even films the surgery, it’s hard to identify with these dizzy fools.

The fact that the implant mill is popping three patients in adjacent chairs in the same operating room speaks volumes. David may need to learn the Hindu translation of “F-around and find out.”

Our central character goes through fresh trauma, adds tattoos and changes of hair color and scenery on his way to a new David. Is any of this what it takes to improve his life? Are those alien Avatar eyes a game changer? Guess.

The characters are exactly what you expect them to be — superficial, vapid, not the brightest bulbs but each a tragic heroine or hero of their own narrative. David owns up to being “my own worst enemy” in the opening credits and never transitions from needy, impulsive and “image” obsessed to anyone who wouldn’t irritate the hell out of even his most tolerant friends.

Two hours with him in a film of this cringy, dubious “fashion” procedure served up with “No problem/What are you worried about?” Indian-accented salesmanship to dopes gullible enough to endure it is cinematic eye abuse in its own right.

Rating: graphic eye surgery sequences, profanity

Cast: David Taylor

Credits: Directed by Liza Mandelup. A Good Deed Entertainment release.

Running time: 1:51

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Movie Preview: Amanda Seyfried founds The Shakers — “The Testament of Ann Lee”

Mona Fastvold’s film biography of a prophet of her times, a founder of a Christian sect which endures in some corners of New England to this day, suggests passion and historical detail — well, save for the fully furled sails of a speeding brig at sea — and some grammatically challenged blurbed endorsements from early reviews.

I stopped at a Shaker village in Maine some years back. Quakers who literally “quake?” Fascinating subject for a movie.

Christmas Day.

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Movie Preview: Finding “Feel Good” feelings and Purpose after Cancer — “Paper Flowers”

This feel good drama, “inspired by a Huffington Post” essay titled “Thank You, Cancer,” is an unlikely “for your consideration” contender being rolled out during awards season.

Not a “name” most of us will recognize in the cast, but a production and its producers can dream, can’t they?

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Movie Review: Postpartum as Improv Exercise — “Die My Love”

Most movies come to you, but challenging ones make you come to them. Even when they’re assaulting you in your seat, they demand your attention, understanding and interpretation to come off.

“Die My Love” is a broken romance and deep dive into dysfunction and madness by a filmmaker who always challenges us. Lynne Ramsay is the Scottish director of “We Need to talk About Kevin” and “You Were Never Really Here.” If she’s made a movie, we take it seriously. She’s earned that.

But there are many moments in this unpleasant-because-life-often-is melodrama where one gets the sense that our star-crossed lovers, played by Oscar winner Jennifer Lawrence and Robert Pattinson, are being barked at off camera by a Scottish accent demanding “Show me EXTREME. Go OFF!”

It’s a postpartum breakdown that plays like a filmed improv exercise, a movie that nobody behind the camera thought to advise its stars that sometimes reality this heightened starts to play like camp.

Based on a novel by Argentine Ariana Hawicaz, “Die My Love” gives us scanty clues to piece together a story that includes a lot we’re not being told.

Grace and Jackson are white-hot for each other, beautiful young people passionate about their naked time together. But a baby isn’t just the apple of their eyes and a bundle of joy/blessing in their lives. It’s a shock to the marriage, and in the case of Grace, a shock to the system.

The New York license plates on their SUV and “great American novel” cracks suggest they met in a city and she had ambitions as a writer. Now, they’re living in the small Montana town he grew up in, residing in an old, disordered house just across the village from the one he grew up in.

He’s on a job (Trucking, maybe?) that has him on the road several days a week. She’s stuck at home alone in her thoughts. Her impulses and passions have nowhere to go, her run-away imagination has no literary outlet. And there’s this demanding, helpless little thing that needs her attention and not just the marathon stroller walks she takes to the convenience store/market or over to her in-laws.

Pam (Oscar winner Sissy Spacek) is empathetic. “You know everybody goes a bit loopy” with a newborn in their life. But she’s carrying her own burden. Husband Harry (Nick Nolte) is a handful, settling into dementia in a house where Pam sleepwalks with the old Remington rifle as her only comfort.

That house Grace and Jackson live in? It was his uncle’s, something that sets Harry off every now and again. Because his brother, Uncle Frank, shot himself in it.

Jackson’s ardor has cooled with the weight of all they have going on. But Grace has the same impulses and passions. Finding condoms in his car’s glove compartment are sure to set her off.

The story of the marriage’s unraveling and Grace’s violent lashing-out as she becomes more disconnected with reality — or just too sensitive to it — is told old out of order. We can blame Jackson for straying, and buy Grace’s justification for craving the sexual attentions of the mysterious helmeted neighbor (LaKeith Stanfield) on a motorcycle. But there’s more going on there. There always has been.

She’s smart enough to be rude to the locals, from baby-loving shop clerks to peers who have gone through versions of what she’s experiencing and try to empathize.

“Babies are a lot,” one fellow young mom reminds her. “:I don’t think people talk about that.”

“They don’t talk about anything else.”

Seeing snippets of Grace and Jackson’s past, we get a glimpse of her future. She got drunk and out of control at their wedding. She likes to crawl around on her hands and knees, imitating a cougar on the prowl.

And in a flash, she can intentionally hurt herself or do something so out of control that they have a car wreck.

We sit on tenterhooks fearing for the baby they’re neglecting and the incessantly yapping dog he’s brought home because his impulse control is childish, too.

There’s no getting around the disquiet Ramsay goes for and achieves with this nightmarish primer on postpartum depression at its most extreme. But at some point, the shocks numb you in ways the tedium of the myopic, intimate story hasn’t. The gratuitous nudity becomes an imposition on an actress (pregnant during the shoot) who still mistakes putting it all “out there” for “fearless,” and an indulgence of a filmmaker who might have been better served not filming the most “out there” rehearsals.

Rating: R, bloody violence, sex nudity, alcohol abuse, profanity

Cast: Jennifer Lawrence, Robert Pattinson, Sissy Spacek, LaKeith Stanfield and Nick Nolte.

Credits: Lynne Ramsay, scripted by Edna Walsh, Alice Birch and Lynne Ramsay, based on a novel by Ariana Harwicz . A Mubi release.

Running time: 1:58

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Movie Review: Relearning the lessons of “Nuremberg”

The stakes could not have been higher. The bloodiest war in history had just been brought to an end, and not all the “monsters” who launched it and conceived and carried out the worst genocide in human history had been killed or killed themselves.

A show trial in the city where their Big Lie and rabble rousing began, forcing the perpetrators to “tell the world what they did” could avoid letting the murderous leaders become martyrs for future generations in Germany, Japan and other places fascism could pop back up. But losing such cases could show the Allies “defeated by the very men we’ve just beaten” and all but invite a twisted revival of the horrors just visited upon the world.

The stakes aren’t as high for any movie about “Nuremberg,” but with fascism rearing its ugly head at home and abroad, you kind of need this latest take on the trial of the last century to resonate, deliver a message and get it right. And the best veteran producer turned writer-director James Vanderbilt could manage is a movie that saves its message for the finale, and swings and misses at showing us how that message was researched and formulated.

Oscar winners Russell Crowe and Rami Malek square off as Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring, Hitler’s second in command, and the American psychiatrist Douglas Kelley sent to question him, examine him and keep him from killing himself before going to trial.

Göring is cocksure and grandiose from the moment he surrenders, stopping his tricked-out Mercedes limo and giving himself up to U.S. troops. Kelley is a glib opportunist who revels at the book he’s sure he’s just had dropped at his feet, joking about the work he is assigned and calling himself a “shrink” twenty years before the term came to be used for psychotherapists.

Kelley isn’t “played” by Göring, but he lets himself be charmed by the man who signed off on concentration camps and SS directives to enslave and slaughter those in them. The cat and mouse game of their “chats” can be flippant and funny as the trained therapist draws a bead on his quarry and the canny World War I flying ace, art connisseur, art thief and pompous member of the lesser nobility relishes the chanceto spin the doctor’s expectations and to have “as you say, my day in court.”

The narrative has our joking and shallow mental health professional journey to a grim appreciation of just what went on in those camps and the role his various “patients” from the heirarchy played in it. He reports to military prison warden Col. Andrus (John Slattery) and even to prosecutor Jackson (Michael Shannon) himself, with both of them wanting inside dope on the defense strategy and wondering about Kelley’s loyalties and his seriousness — book deal or not — as Kelley befriends not just Göring but his family.

And we see the pompous fat man who likes his uniforms and medals plot his manuevers to “escape the hangman’s noose” only to have his culpability laid bare in open court, with all the world watching and listening.

Shannon is Supreme Court Justice Robert H. Jackson, assigned to prosecute the trials of the leaders of the Third Reich and surviving architects of Hitler’s “Final Solution.” Richard E. Grant plays one of his British counterparts, Sir David Maxwell-Fyfe.

The film’s great gift to this piece of much-filmed history is demythologizing Jackson, a figure the script and Shannon portray as well-intentioned, hard-nosed and out of his depth in attempting to try charismatic sociopaths that most of the world would rather had been rounded up and shot.

Jackson lobbying a Nazi-appeaser tainted Pope Pius XII is a scene that crackles. Too many others don’t. Leo Woodall plays a Jewish German-American GI/translator whose personal connection to crimes detailed in court lands flat. And Kelley’s epiphany about what Hannah Arendt would label “the banality of evil,” just ordinary lumps willing to commit and condone heinous acts of barbarism, is misplaced until the tacked-on finale, after he’s written that book.

There’s also a commendable effort to remember the broad scale of the genocide — mass murder of Slavs, Roma (Gypsies), homosexuals, leftists and POWs as well as Europe’s Jews — which is the way the world saw it then, as “concentration camps” were finally exposed as “slave labor camps” and even “death camps.”

The structure of the script delivers the trial scenes only after two not-quite-tedious hours of preliminaries. And even at a two and a half-hour run time, Kelley’s “realization” and outrage plays as so abrupt one can’t help but roll the eyes at the stumbling attempts at humor to show us the starting point of Kelley’s journey into this nightmare, which will make him serious in a flash.

Vanderbilt scripted and directed the similarly tone-death Robert Redford journalism lecture “Truth,” and one really wishes he’d stuck to rounding up financing for Fincher’s “Zodiac” and the “Scream” reboots. The guy who wrote a decades-later “Independence Day” sequel shouldn’t have been allowed anywhere near material this serious.

Didn’t his “shrink” warn him?

Rating: PG-13, horrific concentration camp images, suicide, profanity

Cast: Russell Crowe, Rami Malek, John Slattery, Leo Woodall, Richard E. Grant and Michael Shannon.

Credits: Scripted and directed by James Vanderbilt, based on a book by Jack El-Hai. A Sony Pictures Classics/Walden Media release.

Running time: 2:28

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