The Electrical Life of Louis Wain

Benedict Cumberbatch plays a schizophrenic (surprise surprise!)

The Electrical Life of Louis Wain (2021)

Amazon Prime; 2/5

“This is a true story,” says the title card. That’s a bold statement, as most biopics stick to “based on.” Many don’t even bother; they know they’re taking artistic liberties with their subject and would rather you not notice. However, in a movie about a fin de siècle schizophrenic (or maybe barely-functioning autist) who paints cats, it works. It works because the essence of Wain’s mental disorder rests in his certainty that his perceptions are real. Or, as the film implies, true. So what we see is the life of Louis Wain, gifted but profoundly mentally ill artist, more or less as he sees it, with some narration to help us stay on track and keep a fig leaf of narrative cohesion in place.  

Louis Wain (1860-1939) is the kind of historical figure that could only exist due to the vast wealth sloshing around the Victorian upper middle class. His whole family squeaks along without producing very much, living first on an inheritance and transitioning to aid from others. Some of those others find Wain charming, some feel sorry for him, and some just love his art. The point, though, is that Wain doesn’t ever really work, per se. He’s a talented artist, but it’s largesse that supports him. Watching it, I was struck by the symmetry of Wain’s circumstances and the fact that this movie is an Amazon Original. This isn’t a theatrical release, and isn’t built as a profit-maker. It can exist only because of the vast wealth sloshing around Amazon–someone there found Wain’s life charming, or felt sorry for him, or just loved his art. So now there’s this movie. Like its subject, it doesn’t need to work (earn). It relies on the largesse of real wealth creators just as much as its subject.  

So is it any good? Like Wain’s art, that is entirely an “eye of the beholder” question. As it opens in Victorian England, it has fun with the complex diction and grammatical flourishes of the period (the kind of Austen/Dickens/Doyle patter that Netflix’s Bridgerton also wields to great effect). And Benedict Cumberbatch is as good as he ever is–and he’s exceptionally good at playing people who are intensely mentally ill. But as the movie is just following Wain through his life it lacks a solid dramatic arc. There’s not really a story here. And there’s just a little too much melancholy for the whimsy of Wain’s art to truly shine through. Some may find that to their taste. I confess I don’t.

2 stars of 5: I didn’t care for it, but some might find things to like here.