MR. FROST Explained: Unraveling the Enigma of the Devil

Mr. Frost lives in a grand house in England, loves cooking elaborate dishes that he then photographs but never eats. He is surprisingly hospitable, even when visited by Inspector Detweiler, who is disturbed by the confession of two thieves claiming that a corpse is hidden in one of the cars in Frost’s garage. The host nods in agreement and even suggests that this is not his only victim—soon, the police discover a mass grave on his estate containing the remains of 24 adults and children. Videotapes of recorded torture and murder confirm the man’s monstrous nature, yet a few months after his arrest, he falls completely silent for the next two years. He speaks again only to Dr. Day, a psychiatrist who does not believe in the devil.

Is Mr. Frost “just” a psychopath, a serial killer, a man whom even the greatest doctors cannot diagnose, or does he truly possess an infernal origin? This question places Philippe Setbon’s film somewhere between a psychological thriller and horror, though there is no doubt that the creators lean toward the latter answer.

Viewers may remember Mr. Frost from the VHS boom—shot in 1990, it enjoyed considerable popularity throughout that decade, only to later disappear entirely from circulation, today existing at most as a curiosity for Jeff Goldblum fans. It is difficult to speak of any particular cult following for this French-British production, though its popularity throughout the ’90s is easily explained. Mr. Frost fits within the trend of thrillers where the central theme was a more or less allegorical battle between good and evil, often structured like a police procedural infused with strong horror influences. The following year’s The Silence of the Lambs (though it is key to note that its literary predecessor appeared in 1988, two years before Setbon’s film, with several striking similarities to Thomas Harris’s novel) remains a masterpiece of this narrative style, while other well-known titles in the same vein include The Exorcist III (1990), Se7en (1995), as well as the New Zealand film The Ugly and the Japanese Cure, both from 1997. Mr. Frost has such a strong opening that it is a shame the filmmakers do not seem to know what to do with a serial killer claiming to be the devil as the story progresses. Today, perhaps even more than back then, the viewer is left with a sense of missed opportunity, though Setbon’s work still holds up thanks to Goldblum’s haunting performance and the thick atmosphere of uncertainty that lingers until the very end.

This atmosphere is primarily built through shifts in perspective—within the first fifteen minutes, the film introduces new characters, one after another, through whose eyes we uncover Frost’s mystery. We start with two thieves breaking into his home at night. At that point, the titular character is seen only as a silhouette in the window, a silent observer. It appears as if the host has invited the thieves in, offering them a mere glimpse of his macabre secret. This impression deepens in the next scene when Detweiler (Alan Bates) visits Frost. Their conversation initially feels light and humorous, but the officer quickly becomes uneasy and tense. He wants to get away from Frost as soon as possible, especially when the man confesses to his crimes as if it were a mere formality. It is then that we see Frost’s eyes reflecting metallic crosses—an overtly supernatural element, though it could also be interpreted as a visualization of the terrified inspector’s mind. When we next see Frost, two years have passed since his arrest, and he has been transferred to a psychiatric hospital in an unnamed European country. There, he meets Dr. Day (Kathy Baker), who is assigned to his case.

What is the purpose of these perspective shifts? Each of these individuals learns increasingly terrifying details about Frost, which in turn deepens our understanding of him. Each of them is marked by him in some way—the thieves, to the least extent, likely because they never meet him face to face. However, they do succeed in convincing Detweiler to believe their horrifying story. Meeting Frost costs the inspector more than just a nervous breakdown, his resignation from the force, and an obsession with the killer. Then there is Day, the film’s true protagonist, whom Frost singles out as his primary opponent.

Perhaps, then, there has only ever been one perspective—the perspective of Frost. If so, we are not looking at evil through human eyes, struggling to comprehend it to the point where it must be named demonic (it is no coincidence that it is the inspector who first declares Frost to be the devil before the man himself confirms it). Instead, we are looking at humanity through the eyes of evil. And humanity, of course, is flawed. The thieves are sinners by definition, and the devil exploits this to ultimately ensnare Detweiler. The inspector is tormented by guilt over his wife’s death, which Frost intensifies by revealing her final thought before she died. What, then, has drawn Frost’s attention to Day? She is a psychiatrist, which to the devil is the greatest insult, for science contradicts belief in him. “Knowledge has replaced religion. Evil no longer has the face of the devil. It is man who is evil.” Day’s words explain why the devil has appeared in her life; his need, in turn, is expressed in his claim that scientists have ruined the battle between good and evil. Thus, he reminds the world of his presence by challenging one of those who has reshaped it, erasing the infernal element from human understanding.

Such a setup offers tremendous potential to depict the devil as the ultimate manipulator, a master of human psychology, but also as a strangely wounded figure whose ambition prevents him from surrendering to contemporary secular thought. Unfortunately, Setbon and Brad Lynch’s script fails to handle this ambitious theme; worse yet, it suggests that the filmmakers were unsure of what kind of film they wanted to make. Instead of delivering the promised battle between good and evil, faith and science, we get loosely connected scenes suggesting that Frost’s mere gaze is enough to turn someone into either a murderer or a victim. Day begins experiencing waking nightmares and quickly (too quickly) succumbs to her patient’s influence. The problem is that, at a certain point, she becomes more interested in Detweiler than in Frost, starting an affair with the former. By then, the inspector’s character is completely unnecessary to the plot, and I can only assume his role was extended to keep Alan Bates on set as long as possible. There is also a subplot involving one of Day’s patients, who, under Frost’s influence, escapes from the hospital and starts killing. Had the film maintained a more episodic narrative structure, it could have been an intriguing kaleidoscope of people losing their sanity, identity, and even humanity after encountering the devil.

Ironically, in all of this, Frost himself gets lost. He reveals his cards too soon, and instead of intriguing or terrifying, he simply becomes tiresome. Goldblum tries to sustain the performance with his devilish gaze and grin, hiding a bestial nature, but even that has its limits. Ultimately, Frost is left alone in a ruined hospital where everyone has either died or gone mad. His plan to “defeat” Day is too simplistic, and I fear it is insufficient to make the world believe in the devil again. The most impactful horror remains the revelation of the dozens of bodies buried in his yard—yet this is human monstrosity, not infernal. It aligns more closely with the acts of 20th-century serial killers like Ted Bundy or John Wayne Gacy than with the ruler of hell. It is telling that nothing Frost does later in the film surpasses, in its brutality, the initial macabre discovery. Does this not ultimately confirm that no matter how much evil the devil commits, he cannot surpass man?