For those of you who may be wondering whether the Lookingglass production of Frankenstein answers the question of whether Dr. Victor Frankenstein or the creature he created is the true monster, the answer is neither. The monster is the Lookingglass adaptation of the Mary Shelley book.

The book contains a forward wherein Shelley discusses the first telling of the story at a gathering of friends, including Lord Byron and her future husband Percy Bysshe Shelley. But as the play’s director says in the playbill, the play doesn’t stop there – “I’m fascinated by the blur between Mary’s novel of creation, rejection, and destruction and her own life of love, loss, and abandonment.”

Blur is the right word. The play’s intertwining of the story of Shelley’s life with the plot of the book leaves one spending more time trying to catch the moments when the story is flipping than on the substance itself. At least the writer/director didn’t try to incorporate a third story line about his own life, at least as far as I could tell.

And at least we can always rely on Lookingglass to create fascinating design features . . . except this time. The intricacies attempted in this production demand that the actors spend half their time walking around the set pulling cords, straightening out see-through sheets of materials, and cleaning up the stage floor, pulling all the focus away from the words being spoken.

The actors also do a lot of walking around off the stage in an effort to create a sense of travel, time, and distance, but it just seemed like they were trying to get their steps in for their Fitbits, which, to be fair, I didn’t spot any of them wearing.

The woman two seats over from me fell asleep less than a half hour into the play. Enough said.