Scary German Girl. |
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"It was on a dreary night of November that I beheld the accomplishment of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I collected the instruments of life around me, that I might infuse a spark of being into the lifeless thing that lay at my feet..."
Halloween was a time when the good people of the world would swathe their children in costume and mask, in hopes of keeping the foul creatures of All Hollow's Eve at bay. Victor Frankenstein, however, wasn't quite as lucky in averting the ghoul of his creation. Pieced together with the fruits of Victor's abominable corpse rummagings, sewn by hand, sparked to life, but ultimately pushed away by what should have been the nurturing hand of its creator, Frankenstein's Monster was a horror to behold. In more ways than one.
In the novel, Shelley's towering infant wanted to be good. As a cruel twist of fate, goodness from the Monster was forever met with the dangerous ignorance of man. Save a girl -- eat a bullet. The world wasn't very kind to the man without a name, because so many, it seemed, weren't likely to stop and think before reacting. That's the true horror of Frankenstein, the novel – set into the world, tetherless to any other creature; mind ablaze with beautiful thoughts, impressive logic, yet alone, without so much as a creator to beg mercy from. Little wonder then, why Frankenstein's Monster has thrived in the world's imagination for the better part of two centuries. I mean, boy, if I had a penny for every time my mind ventured a peek into that maudlin corner... well, I'd be a friendless, misshapen freak – but I'd have a hell of a lot of pennies.
A close second atop the stack of unsettling notions Shelley presented is the terrible thought that somewhere, in a charming, sharp-minded man's loft, there is a percolating laboratory, on the verge of impersonating God. Of these dual frights, Hollywood was quick to establish a penchant for the later – interpreting the tale as a parable of the dreadful business arbitrarily bestowing life is, and the dimwitted, cumbersome (but shockingly strong), damnable fruits of such labors. Perhaps I'm in a minority here, but frankly, I just don't find that prospect quite as scary. Don't get me wrong – I would be the first to stand in line for a film which featured a grunting and growling, stiff-kneed corpse in motion who terrorized the living. Especially if the corpse had a lot of corpse buddies, who decided en tandem to surround then terrorize the living, who happened to be barricaded in a farmhouse with no means of communication with the outside world. And then they shoot the black guy. Oh. Wait.
James Whale (1931 FRANKENSTEIN) can't be strapped with the entire burden of twisting the notion of Frankenstein being an unsettling story into Frankenstein being a story about an unsettling, fiendish creature. Who would've guessed the instigator to be none other than Mary Shelley, herself? In a perfect ouroboros fashion, the other, more accessible horror, is the brain-chilling realization Frankenstein's Monster comes to achieve regarding his placement in the world; which is to say, he had no place in this world. Other people – those far more physically pleasing, more socially adept – could have all they wanted. Other people could live, love and flourish. They could smile in confidence that even if that smile should fade, another was just around the corner. People could... but not a monster.
This aspect was largely omitted in the 1831 edition of the Frankenstein novel -- many themes whittled down to campfire fodder of a struggle between unleashed beast and the mad scientist who created him.
Granted, Boris Karloff's mean green in Whale's masterpiece was more an overgrown border collie than a fantastic mind imprisoned within a fantastically hideous, reanimated collection of cadaver parts. It's one of those rare performances which is so potent; it actually staves off frequent viewings -- that girl and those flowers – who wants their heart to break again?
It's so refreshing to see a man find a new little friend to play with. |
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None of us were asked to be here, of course, but at least we're all in the same game. Frankenstein's Monster can't even take refuge in that. Constructed with society's used parts, he represents the best and worst of us. We love Frankenstein's Monster because he loves, and he continues to try to, despite his attempts being returned battered and broken. The blind hatred which eventually consumes him mirrors the person each of us doesn't want to become.
Frankenstein is also a tale of caution. Humans have a way of rationalizing what they desire, to perilous ends. The U.S. wanted a bunch of land, the Germans, a buzzing economy. Victor Frankenstein wanted glory, and Victor's creation demanded his attention, was adamant for a show of benevolence, and in place of all that, Victor's endless misery.
A sea of ideas, ripe for bottling, then a sound shaking – many possible twists on a tale of what happens when a man became obsessed.
If I had a blue ribbon to pin on the film which Would Have Been the Best Twist on Frankenstein if Only it Hadn't Been so Hideously Muddled in the Making, that ribbon would go to THE BRIDE.
(Have I mentioned my Clancy Brown affliction yet? No? Oh, well, I have a Clancy Brown Affliction. I get a little giddy inside when I see his name on a credits list.)
This ill-fated, near-wonder, features Clancy Brown (!) as Viktor (in this case, the Monster). Years ago, Brown explained in an interview with Gorezone Magazine, the original scripting for THE BRIDE placed a great amount of emphasis on the parallels between the Monster finding his place in the world away from the castle, and "The Bride", Eva (Jennifer Beals), gaining her voice, both as a creation and a woman, within the castle.
Instead of that very well-crafted plotline, THE BRIDE simultaneously presents the two tales in a mostly disjaunted fashion. Void of the fleshing parallels, Eva's end of the spectrum falls cinematically short. The lessons she receives in life and etiquette from her creator (Sting) hardly compare to the engrossing adventures of Viktor. He befriends a dwarf (David Rappaport), and ends up in the circus. While a circus sounds fun, I assure you, if you were to mix the scene in MAD MAX: BEYOND THUNDERDOME where the dwarf pleads for the life of his enormous companion, with the little girl scene from the 1931 FRANKENSTEIN, you'd almost have the heart crunch that occurs during Viktor's fall from grace.
This is what I meant by The Curse of Frankenstein. It's just never quite right.
A fine example of this curse lies with MARY SHELLEY'S FRANKENSTEIN. A film which so deliciously teased, during the opening credits of a tale that would "... make the reader dread to turn around" and would "curdle the blood". That would've been a great movie to see. Instead, I saw MARY SHELLEY'S FRANKENSTEIN. While some scenes were exquisite in delivery (though simplified, the Monster's study of the family, and his shared joy of their small victories was certainly worth a viewing), too many others seemed tailored to foreshadow a Helena Bonham Carter showcase at the film's end. Lukewarm loyalty to the novel painted Frankenstein's creations into a bit of a corner – the Monster's labored simple-speak, though apparently mostly "remembered", took quite some time to cultivate, leaving Frankenstein's bride only able to mime her frustrations at the conclusion.
The actual creation of the Monster is vague in the book, yet lightening never fails to fill in the gaps on film. Therefore, MARY SHELLEY'S FRANKENSTEIN garners some serious groovy points for use of electric eels.
Another mixed basket was Vincent Perez's portrayal of a reanimated creation in FRANKENSTEIN (2004 pilot). Might've floated a bit easier if not opposite Parker Posey. Love her, though I do, a hardened cop? Not 
Finding a tap dancing Frankenstein pic isn't as easy as one would think. |
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believable for a moment. A pity, too, because the play between Frankenstein and his female creation was a welcomed embellishment. Mixing regeneration with cloning, the pilot doled out some certifiable hits with Frankenstein's centuries-spanning obsession, and the woman who, regardless of her suicide count, could never quite escape his snare.
Really, the only retelling of Frankenstein which doesn't strike me with a glaring error, is SUBJECT TWO. Granted, SUBJECT TWO was about as far away from the traditional plotlines as one could get while still falling under the Frankenstein label. Set in a desolate winter mountain terrain, a young man takes the position of a lab assistant, unwittingly falling prey to resurrection experiments. An absolute pleasure to stumble across at the video store. Low budget, shot miles from civilization in a cabin, with much of the film on the shoulders of two actors – SUBJECT TWO succeeds where other Frankensteins have failed. If only other, more traditional Frankenstein films, were allowed to rest their story on the Monster as fully as these two men are portrayed! Leisurely paced, one could watch while gradually becoming wholly immersed. Two men testing the boundaries of life and death, without getting wrapped up in the what-comes-after, nor of what the consequences of their actions might be.
Thing about twists – they don't have to be sane.
(... and I'm not just referring to FLESH FOR FRANKENSTEIN.)
Such is the case with FRANKENHOOKER. FRANKENHOOKER was brought to us by Frank Henenlotter, the genius mind behind BASKETCASE. What is a med school dropout to do when his love is dispatched in a tragic lawnmower accident? Thick, visible, yet oddly sexy stitching, exploding hookers and recycled body parts bent on walking... the streets... even a Frankenstein purist must have a funny bone in there somewhere.
It's refreshing to see the Monster have a bit of fun. There were such an abundance of opportunities in the novel for the Monster to achieve a good end. He could have been taken in by the family, a man might have thanked him for saving the girl who fell into the brook – forks in the road mankind continually trudged past. So, while I could bestow a hundred different ribbons upon this next one, I do believe I'll opt for "Frankenstein's Monster's Happiest End", reserved for none other than that grand grimoire of comedy, YOUNG FRANKENSTEIN.
Bonham Carter, Beals, Lanchester – fine brides, one and all, but Madeline Kahn in '74? Ah, it'd be worth the electric shocks and deformities to take her home.
So, no balls-to-the-walls, creepish versions of Frankenstein's Monster to gasp at in the dead of night. No straight-up delivery of a thing without a place in this world that lets you completely get into the Monster's head. I'm holding out hope, though. The story of Frankenstein will be with us for many more years to come.
Someone's bound to get it right eventually.
And please, if you only walk away from this article with one tidbit lolling in your head, please, for the love of all that is good within this world, let it be a thorough understanding that when you paint yourself green, and spirit gum electrodes to your neck, you are Frankenstein's Monster. Not Frankenstein. Frankenstein is the man who created the monster, but if you dressed as him, no one would get it.
Since the masses, clearly, abhor that which they do not understand, you'd run a risk of a family of scientist-loathers beating and stoning you the moment you rapped on their door for a treat – regardless of the kind act you'd just bestowed, in setting their not-so-creepy lawn ornament back on its proper end. It's a road you don't want to go down. Better to go as a monster.
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