Frankenstein Unwound

Lately, I have been giving a lot of thought to the story of Frankenstein (can’t imagine why).  If you don’t know, Frankenstein: or, The Modern Prometheus is a novel penned by Romantic Period writer Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley in 1818. Even if you have never heard of Shelley you are probably aware of the characters from her book as they are indelible cultural icons.  I’ve read the book, twice; most probably because it is such a tedious tome that I’d forgotten most of the detail and in an act of cerebral self-flagellation submitted myself to the punishment once again.

Lore has it (well, it’s probably not so much lore as bragging by the author as she states it as fact in her own preface) that she and her Lake Geneva companions, poets Percy Shelley (husband) and Lord Byron were sitting around one day desperately trying to break the boredom of being God’s gifts to literature when one of them threw out the challenge that they should each write a horror story. The quality of said product is proof enough that writing should never be the object of competitive challenge.

Now most of you will be passing familiar with the general theme of Frankenstein as dozens of movies and countless other cultural references have featured at least the veneer if not the substance of Shelley’s novel.  I was raised on the Universal Studios production released in 1931 starring Colin Clive as Dr. Henry Frankenstein and launching the career of Boris Karloff (credited as “?”) as the monster.  It is an enjoyable movie on two levels: the first being an engaging science fiction/horror thriller, the second for the camp value intrinsic in early film craft.  Basically, a scientist obsessed with returning life to the dead creates a monstrous creature, recognizes his folly, unleashes said monster on Swiss population, things go badly for all involved.  The book is much deeper and devotes many, many pages to both Dr. Frankenstein and the Monster contemplating their respective places in creation and blah, blah, blah. Thank God the movie left out the endless soul searching and focused on creepy makeup and torch bearing villagers.

If you consider yourself an aficionado of English Romantic literature (by the way, Romantic here refers to a European literary movement that spanned the late eighteenth through mid-nineteenth centuries, not the genre of heaving-bosom fiction featuring Fabio in the cover art… some books should be read, others should be used to start bon fires) you should read Shelley’s Frankenstein.  Then rent or buy the movies Frankenstein (1931), Bride of Frankenstein (1935-again, Universal Studios) and Son of Frankenstein (1939-still, Universal Studios …work that franchise baby!!!) and have a few good laughs. And if you’re old enough to remember Moona Lisa, bask in the glow of Saturday afternoon nostalgia.  Then, if your hunger for things Frankenstein has yet to be sated, get hold of a copy of Mel Brooks’ Young Frankenstein (1974-Twentieth Century Fox… should have held onto those movie rights, Universal) and be prepared to laugh your ass off!

I trust it is obvious from this missive that I love old movies, particularly from the golden age of Hollywood.  And I hope, that on the occasional week when I just can’t think of anything funny or thoughtful to report about my own life (had you figured that one out yet?), you won’t mind too much if I fill the space with recommendations from the library in my head. “Is that a bookshelf sticking out of his ear?”