At the end of the 19^th century, British cartoonist Louis Wain (Benedict Cumberbatch) rises in fame and popularity for his whimsical illustrations of cats.  Despite the realization of his art by the public, his troubled past still haunts the whimsical illustrator, and his continued decline in mental stability – modernly looked at now as schizophrenia – becomes unbearable for the man.  Wain perseveres and his work reaches new heights becoming beloved by the people and his iconic style garnered massive attention and affection from an incredibly wide and eager audience. 

Will Sharpe writes, with Simon Stephenson, and directs the rather formulaic biopic, The Electrical Life of Louis Wain, released by Amazon Studios.  While it does not quite span cradle-to-grave, the film seeks to unpack and understand the legacy of Wain by tracing back to formative moments in his childhood, his floundering role as head of household looking after his sisters, his consequential scandalous relationship with their governess Emily (Claire Foy), and, almost as an afterthought, his role with the Illustrated London News and career in art.  The script is far too unwieldy to manage, and while the more modern trend of “snapshot biopics” that only focus on a few days in the life of their subject – think Steven Spielberg‘s Lincoln (2012) or Pablo Larraín’s Spencer (2021) – would not lend itself as well to Wain’s story, the lack of focus on Sharpe and Stephenson’s part as screenwriters negatively impacts the final product. 

The other disappointment from the film is that it does not embrace the same style as its subject to tell his story.  Comparing it to Tim Burton’s Big Eyes (2014), the Amy Adams starer really leaned into the style of Margaret Keane in its production design.  While the script was equally soft, visually, the film made sense as it matched the slightly darker tone of its subject’s work – no doubt the initial hook for the film’s director.  The Electrical Life, however, looks like any one of the dime-a-dozen biopics released in any given year, almost afraid to really embrace the psychedelic patterns of Wain in an effort to maintain broader accessibility.  The tactic fails in this case as the film comes off rather soulless and was quickly buried by the Prime algorithm in favor of other titles released by the streamer. 

Released the same year as The Power of the Dog in which Cumberbatch was widely hailed for a career-best performance, audiences will find the Brit traversing much more familiar territory here.  His performance is on par with his other resume entries as competent, but not exactly memorable or remarkable.  He plays it safe – much like the entire creative team behind the film – and does not take many risks here at all in a role that really demands a bit of a wild edge.  The script rattles off the man’s impressive list of interests and hobbies and, while it is overlong at 111 minutes, a smarter script could have expanded on these misadventures of creativity in a more exciting way that would have added some levity to the first half of the film.  He bops and bumbles along giving a little bit of eccentricity to the role, but he cannot breathe life into the rigid and uninterestingly written title character. 

Opposite Cumberbatch is Claire Foy, who, in the world of the film is supposed to be 10 years his senior but it certainly does not come across as such in the makeup.  A bit of an oddball herself, hiding away in the wardrobe to read Shakespeare, Foy is thankfully not regulated to the all-too-familiar role of “biopic wife” in this film, but given the course of events of which the film is based, her role is ultimately cut short.  That being said, the two do share a certain bit of chemistry throughout the span of their ill-fated relationship.  While she is around, there is a scene where the two are painting a flower design together on a window and it is one of the more tender and affecting moments of the film.  The artistry comes to the forefront in the latter half of the film, which admittedly is where the film is working at its best as it highlights the unique, bold, and colorful style of the artists.    

Unseen, Oliva Coleman narrates the whole affair; her monologues are chock full of quirky word choices to try and add in the desperately desired air of whimsy but come off more like imitation Wes Anderson.  She does her best with the material reciting her lines in a sing-song storybook way, and there are points where her narration coupled with the action on-screen work well and tease at what this film could have been, but the sluggish meniscus between these few moments of folly bogs The Electrical Life down into an unfortunate chore. 

The most frustrating thing about The Electrical Life of Louis Wain is that the team behind the film clearly regards the struggling artist and his memory highly.  Despite this, its tonal imbalance creates more than one instance where it seems almost mean-spirited and unintentionally treats Wain as the butt of its own joke.  As it is presented, it is a very misguided attempt that required a much bolder commitment to style from the production team, a more focused script from the writers, and a clearer direction of talent so that everyone was on the same page while shooting.  Without that clarity and continuity both in front and behind the camera, the result is a true and unfortunate misfire on all accounts in which the drab Victorian color palate overtakes everything like a puddle of paint spilled across the worktable resulting in a brown and unsightly mess.