Man and the Monster
A review of Frankenstein, and all monstrosity which it embraces.
What does it mean, to be monstrous?
If we want to talk about the monstrous, to assess and understand it, surely we must look at the monsters which mankind has created. But this isn’t quite enough. Humanity has been creating monsters for millennia, with no signs of slowing down. The vast majority fall by the wayside, into obscurity. What is it about ghosts and witches, vampires and werewolves which make them into enduring abominable creatures? Why are they so impactful? What brings these impotent fictions into our culture, not as banal curiosities, but fascinating living things, filled with moral significance, surrounded with an air of myth and terror? What does it mean to be truly monstrous?
I’m sure you’ll be glad to hear, for the sake of time, there is only one monster which we need to study in order to understand the monstrous. He is an unusual one. A changeling of sorts, and suitably nameless. Imbued with both life and renown by the man, the scientist, the poet they call Frankenstein.
Frankenstein’s monster is perhaps the only shambling monstrosity within the Halloween canon to have gained a reputation for being just as misunderstood as it is understood. Even if you haven’t read through Bram Stoker’s Dracula, you’ll still have a firm grasp on the basics of what a vampire is, and what Dracula is like, simply based on cultural diffusion. Zombies are gross (un)dead people that hang out in herds. Ghosts are clean(ish) dead people that float through walls. Witches cackle and cast spells, while mummies curse people and wear toilet paper. Yet, behind his stitches and the bolts in his neck, Frankenstein’s monster is uncertain. He is nameless, yet he has a name. He is brainless, yet intelligent. He is a monster which is no monster at all, subservient to the monstrosity which Victor Frankenstein himself cursed this world with. Or is he? The more you dig, the more you’ll find that everything about the monster we call Frankenstein is a contradiction. In my opinion, these contradictions are revealing. They tell us a story, about what makes a monster monstrous, and about the things which humanity truly fears.
That’s what this essay is all about. It is about Frankenstein, the 1818 book by Mary Shelley, and Frankenstein, the 1931 film directed by James Whale, and above all, Frankenstein, the timeless creature born of science and lightning which we all know today. It is about fictions, and monsters, and how we entwine the two in strange ways. About how we might learn more about the world around us, once we understand how we paint it. With that out of the way, let’s get this review started.
The Romance of Written Word
When I started up this little project, I was quite surprised to find that Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein is a Romance. Not a small-r romance, found in cheap paperbacks at the airport, but the old, forgotten movement. A Romance of the spirit. Grandiosity and kindness, the overwhelming beauty of nature, and the whirlpool of crippling emotion which consumes the greatest of men. While reading the book, I was surprised just how frequently I had to stop, glance at the cover, and mentally remind myself that this was a horror story.
Because, for much of the novel, Frankenstein isn’t a horror story. It tells the tale of Robert Walton, who has thrown away a life of wealth and comfort and instead embraced brine and wonder; hiring a ship to explore the unseen wonders of the arctic. It tells the tale of Felix, thrust with his family into poverty after freeing an imprisoned man; a foreigner sentenced to death over little more than the jealousy of nobles. The tale of Elizabeth Lavenza, (adopted) sister and gracious lover of a man too plagued by his genius to accept her. Of Henry Clerval, chivalrous companion eager to learn great things and spread them abroad. Of Justine Moritz, caught between a cruel family of birth and a generous family of adoption. Of Alphonse Frankenstein, a man of integrity who wed a poor, hardworking girl, orphan to a friend who died in cruel exile.
And of course, there is the tale of Victor Frankenstein, his son. Raised by virtue and kindness, astounded by the beauty and myth in the world. Victor stumbles onto more superstitious works in his childhood, which he eagerly engages with before his life takes a dramatic turn at the age of fifteen, during a thunderstorm.
As I stood at the door, on a sudden I beheld a stream of fire issue from an old and beautiful oak, which stood about twenty yards from our house; and so soon as the dazzling light vanished, the oak had disappeared, and nothing remained but a blasted stump.
It is suitable that Victor’s true passion is kindled by a lightning strike. A fellow resident explains the phenomenon of electricity to young Frankenstein with such zeal that the lad can’t help but turn his studies to the realm of science. With time, this would lead him down the path of the impossible. All the foolish superstitions and ineffectual incantations of yesteryear, met with the progress and doggedness of scientific inquiry. Victor Frankenstein would learn how to create life. And regret it forevermore.
Most of Frankenstein’s quirks can be explained by this odd dichotomy. The natural push and pull between Shelley’s inclination to create a work of Romance, slated in high moral ideals and the trials inflicted on those who pursue them, and her inclination to create a work of Horror, a tale of the grotesque things which bring mankind to ruin. I wish I could say that she threaded the needle perfectly, but the novel is a bit stilted in parts. Side stories often go on too long for what they add to the overall story, and the dramatic moments are sometimes undercut by noticeably dry prose. That isn’t to say that Frankenstein is undeserving of its status, though. Every so often, these two goals entwine with one another, and Shelley manages to write things so uniquely provocative as to make any small flubs irrelevant. For instance, at the start, Victor is from the same stock as every other character in the book, pursuing a wondrous Romantic ideal:
Life and death appeared to me ideal bounds, which I should first break through, and pour a torrent of light into our dark world. A new species would bless me as its creator and source; many happy and excellent natures would owe their being to me.
Yet, as Victor comes closer and closer to creating his masterpiece, he descends into a mania. He shuts himself in a tower, starts raiding graveyards for materials, running tortuous experiments on animals. He becomes so singularly focused on his task as to ignore everything around him. The Romantic ideal which he pursues is revealed to the audience to be the exact opposite. Among his peers, Frankenstein is the one man who fervently pursued horror. Every trial which others were meant to overcome was his warning, meant to be heeded. Passion was the strength of all others, their sole comfort in trying times. But for Victor Frankenstein, it yields nothing but sickness and death.
The Horror of the Human Heart
…now that I had finished, the beauty of the dream vanished, and breathless horror and disgust filled my heart.
Once his creation is complete, Victor joins the audience in his understanding. He sees the monster as an abomination, and flees, abandoning the thing. There is a brief, excellent scene where the monster breaks into Frankenstein’s bedchamber during a rainstorm, but once that has passed… Nothing. The creature fades into the background, and Victor begins a slow recovery from the mania which gripped him.
This sets the general pace for the rest of Frankenstein’s story. A moment or two of gripping horror, followed by months of Victor reeling from the emotional trauma. Just as he begins to recover (usually by observing the wonder of nature), his creation strikes again. Corpses are made of friend and family, and eventually poor Victor is found alone in the arctic, with only his story and an unceasing desire for vengeance against the being which shattered his life to pieces.
Appropriately, most of Frankenstein is narrated by Frankenstein, and Victor’s narrative is a clear one. He reflects on his life towards the end of the book, so I’ll let the man speak for himself. His monologue also does a decent job of illustrating Shelley’s style during the more dramatic bits, so I’ll let you read the full chunk.
‘I believed myself destined for some great enterprise. My feelings are profound; but I possessed a coolness of judgment that fitted me for illustrious achievements. This sentiment of the worth of my nature supported me, when others would have been oppressed; for I deemed it criminal to throw away in useless grief those talents that might be useful to my fellow-creatures. When I reflected on the work I had completed, no less a one than the creation of a sensitive and rational animal, I could not rank myself with the herd of common projectors. But this thought, which supported me in the commencement of my career, now serves only to plunge me lower in the dust. All my speculations and hopes are as nothing; and, like the archangel who aspired to omnipotence, I am chained in an eternal hell. My imagination was vivid, yet my powers of analysis and application were intense; by the union of these qualities I conceived the idea, and executed the creation of a man. Even now I cannot recollect, without passion, my reveries while the work was incomplete. I trod heaven in my thoughts, now exulting in my powers, now burning with the idea of their effects. From my infancy I was imbued with high hopes and lofty ambition; but how am I sunk! Oh! my friend, if you had known me as I once was, you would not recognise me in this state of degradation. Despondency rarely visited my heart; a high destiny seemed to bear on, until I fell, never, never again to rise.’
He is a great man, capable of great things. In his pursuit of horror, he is punished forevermore. Everything that was wondrous about the brilliant Victor Frankenstein only serves to deepen the chasm he is cast into. It is a story of condemnation and warning, to turn away from the passions which break your humanity. A call for great men to lessen themselves, to change direction, lest they find their life made ruinous by the very thing they pursue. He is a God who was merely a man. Perhaps a later quote does him more justice.
‘Seek happiness in tranquility, and avoid ambition, even if it be only the apparently innocent one of distinguishing yourself in science and discoveries.’
But there is another story lurking in the background of Frankenstein, one which contradicts Victor’s prevailing narrative. It’s high time I gave the wretch his due. Let’s talk about Frankenstein’s monster.
As presented by Mrs. Shelley, the monster is a being of frost. He is pervasive within the narrative, but rarely physically present. He lingers like the chill of the morning. A reminder of the frigid night behind you. An omen of the night to come. The monster lives as he is, apart from society and the love of mankind. Victor designed him well. Expertly, even. He can endure extreme environments more easily than humans, and readily survives off of whatever he can forage, even in the middle of winter. He is a hulking tower of a man, strong yet surprisingly stealthy. Even his mind is hearty, and within a few months of time he becomes both literate and articulate, with a booming, compelling method of speech. And he is beautiful. But alas, his beauty is reserved for only one man, at one time. Victor Frankenstein, in the heights of his mania. To a man fascinated with animating dead flesh, the results speak for themselves.
His yellow skin scarcely covered the work of muscles and arteries beneath; his hair was of a lustrous black, and flowing; his teeth of pearly whiteness; but these luxuriances only formed a more horrid contrast with his watery eyes, that seemed almost the same color as the dun-white sockets in which they were set, his shrivelled complexion and straight black lips.
The monster is, as the kids say, super-uggo. His features carry an almost supernatural repulsiveness throughout the entire book. The moment a sane or kind person looks upon his features, they find themselves reeling in disgust, sometimes violently so. Anyone who stumbles across the monster is driven to immediately suspect the worst. Rocks are thrown, guns are fired, old men and little girls are protected, and peace is restored to society, once the monster is driven away.
The tale of Frankenstein’s monster is a strange tale indeed. Though he was born in horror, it should be little surprise that the monster is a character caught by Romance. How could he not be? Every story which surrounds him, every human in every hovel, every abandoned book and every icy peak, everything in Shelley’s world hums to the tune of great passion. The monster is a nameless beast in a world of nobles, explorers and poets. Highest among his possessions is that of a human heart. A soul which craves companionship. Frankenstein’s curse is the beauty which he bestowed upon his creation. The guarantee that, no matter where the monster should roam, he will be reviled.
As the monster moves from the background of the story to the foreground, as he tells his tale, Victor’s narrative begins to lose its luster. In truth, the original sin of Frankenstein was not the creation of life from death. It was the revulsion which gripped him the moment he finished his creation. The monster was inherently kind-hearted, quick to learn and eager to grow, but at the moment of his birth, he was abandoned by the very person that gave him life. The man best positioned to understand what lay beneath the horrific visage cannot bring himself to look past it. Frankenstein’s monster was left with the ideals and passion of his creator, and no kindred soul to bear them with. In his solitude, the monster becomes a different type of Romantic.
‘On you it rests, whether I quit forever the neighbourhood of man and lead a harmless life, or become the scourge of your fellow creatures, and the author of your own speedy ruin.’
For if Victor is his creator, if Frankenstein has taken his place as a God among men, then surely the monster is justified in treating him as such. Surely the monster must either love him fully, or curse his name, bellowing against ice and stone in vain attempt to debase his maker. Frankenstein’s monster has a role to play, and he has the time, strength, and passion needed to play it well.
If Frankenstein’s tale was a cautionary one, urging men to temper their Romantic impulses lest they lead to great horror, then the monster’s tale is the culmination of that cruel lesson. In his rebellion against his creator and his sorrow for his lot in life, he corrupts his own soul into that of a common degenerate. He wrings the neck of a child, and frames the crime on an innocent. He brutally murders kind people who know nothing of his existence, and actively seeks to obliterate Frankenstein’s joy by any measure he can manage. Ultimately, Frankenstein’s monster is not monstrous because of his appearance, I believe Shelley makes that clear. There was a time during the novel when the creature was hideous, yet noble and kind. It does not last. With time and rejection he becomes monstrous the way that a human is, in his burning desire for vengeance, and the cruelties he is willing to enact in order to satiate it. His passion is contorted against him, and is used to drive the purposeful enactment of horror upon those which surround him. More so than any character in the book, the monster is the embodiment of Romance which bleeds into horror. His end is appropriate. Even the great sinner Victor Frankenstein is permitted a noble death in the company of man. The monster dies some time, some where, some way. In the cold. Alone. Even the book is unwilling to describe the scene.
The Turnabout
I have something to confess. I’ve been playing it a little coy with Frankenstein’s story thus far. Let me requote one of Victor’s lines from earlier, without cutting the man off:
‘Seek happiness in tranquility, and avoid ambition, even if it be only the apparently innocent one of distinguishing yourself in science and discoveries. Yet why do I say this? I have myself been blasted in these hopes, yet another may succeed.’
Nothing in Frankenstein is as clear as I’ve been making it out to be. Victor’s story isn’t as simple as a reprimand against progress, Shelley is too even-handed for that. Even on his deathbed, Frankenstein admits that his own narrative isn’t so simple. Perhaps another person should come along, and create life from death. Perhaps they will manage to become all that Victor wished he could be. Shelley clearly has no bone to pick with science, and believes it to be a wondrous thing. Similarly valued are the passions of mankind, and the kindness and support which we grant one another. Despite all the themes of high morality, Frankenstein is hesitant to knuckle down and commit to a single message. It shows how science is a force for good, and evil. Intense passion is behind the kindest and cruelest moments in the book. Loneliness drives characters mad, and heals their wounds. Trials fall upon the just and the unjust, and frankly, I can’t always tell who the just and unjust even are.
The themes are certainly there. I’ve been doing my darndest to get them across, after all. But every through line in the book has some amount of pushback. There is no golden calf in Frankenstein, just a few silver ones, placed underneath some well fed birds. It’s a bit of a mish-mash of a book, and I quite enjoyed it for that. The underlying concepts are original, and although Shelley is clearly influenced by the culture and high literature of her time, she is enough of a free-thinker to keep things interesting. If you’re willing to stick with her through the occasional flub, she knocks a few scenes out of the park. Particularly if, like myself, you love a good monologue on the mountaintop.
The Sight which Blinds
I hope you’ve got a decent grasp on the book at this point, because it’s time to move along. Frankenstein first hit the big screen in 1931, directed by one James Whale. The film is short by today’s standards, coming in at a scant seventy minutes. Despite its brevity, the cultural impact of the movie has been absolutely massive. If there’s anything which you know about Frankenstein, it likely originates here, in a black and white film shot nearly a hundred years ago.
Which makes the movie kind of fascinating to pick apart, since it deviates quite heavily from the source material in key areas. Most of the changes are understandable; the film is short, time is money, and the original story has a lot of fat that is well worth trimming. Gone are the various tales of Clerval and Justine and Felix, replaced with a razor focus on Vic- ah, sorry, Henry Frankenstein and his (still nameless) monster. And his… Hunchbacked assistant, Fritz? And his comedically huff-n-puff, got-to-get-my-son-married father, the Baron? Alright, so maybe not a razor sharp focus, but Frankenstein’s journey is definitely the focal point of the film, taking up the vast majority of screen time. The opening scene is excellent, catching Henry in the height of his mania, going around and collecting dead bodies. It eschews the backstory and buildup of the book, but in return gains a firmly established tone.
After all, unlike Mrs. Shelley’s work of print, Mr. Whale’s work of picture knows exactly what it wants to be. Frankenstein is a horror story. It is a driven, boundary-breaking scientist, his abominable creation, and the terror which ensues when the dead is brought to life. It is lightning and science, angry mobs and fire, and strangely enough, a happy ending.
The beauty of the film is that, despite all of the changes, cuts and additions it makes in regards to the source material, it rarely loses sight of the dramatic heights which its predecessor set. Shelley never actually details the process Frankenstein uses to grant his creation life in the books, so the movie makes the inspired decision to use lightning. The resulting cries of “It’s Alive!” in the aftermath of a thunderstorm have set the tone for every Frankenstein adaptation since. The monster’s interactions with a playful little girl are in turn endearing and saddening, while the image of a burning windmill, coupled with the horrific screams of a dying beast are difficult to forget, once they’ve been witnessed. Just like the novel before it, Frankenstein has these moments which stick with you, long after the film has run its course. An impressive feat, and one which is much more accessible than reading a book.
When Old is Made New
Victor/Henry’s arc is the most intact in the film, keeping most of his core character beats. What’s gone is the waffling, the repetition. Initially he is brilliant and deranged, but once his creation becomes violent, he turns away from that persona. He never yearns for his lost passion, and future tragedies lead to immediate action, rather than another bout of emotional illness. He fights against the monster, and manages to redeem himself in the end, going on to live a happy life. There is a clear moral arc to his journey; a time when he is evil, a time when he is good, and a stumbling giant monster to remind him of all his past sins.
Speaking of which, let’s talk about the big guy. In an unusual decision by modern standards, Frankenstein opts to take the route of discreet horror. A singular threat which can be overcome, rather than an impossible creature which is never truly vanquished. This is technically how the book functioned as well, but the way that Shelley presented the monster often made it feel supernatural, removed from the world of humans, even if the evidence said it was flesh and bone. The movie monster never quite manages to come off as more than a big strong guy.
But to be fair, the monster is an excellent big strong guy. Tall and stumbling, bolts sticking out of his neck, bulging neanderthal brow. The design leaves an impression, and rightfully captured the public’s imagination. It’s a shame that the appearance is the only thing Frankenstein managed to successfully translate.
The monster in the film is drastically different from his well-read counterpart in the book. He is not Romantic, he does not aspire to high ideals, he doesn’t even speak. Or move particularly well, for that matter. Frankenstein’s movie monster was given the brain of a criminal, but he possesses the brain of a child. He is frightened by fire, he plays games that accidentally kill, and he never seems all that aware of what’s going on around him. There is no dramatic rebellion against his creator, no speech claiming what he is due, or the terror that will be wrought if he is denied it. There is still some charm and empathy to be found with the monster, but it is a very different variety. The Man of Frost is valued as an equal. An intelligent being placed in this world under cruel circumstances which he should not be expected to bear. The Man of Lightning is valued as a lesser. An innocent being who is cruelly taunted by flame; whose greatest crimes were committed in ignorance.
Both are monstrous in their own right, ultimately deserving of their fate. Yet the two are strikingly different in where that monstrosity lies. In one, the mind is the monster, while the appearance is innocent. In the other, the mind is innocent, while the body commits great evils. Perhaps this core difference between the two makes their respective fates all the more foreseeable. To perish by loneliness and time, a mind made to suffer, or by an all-consuming flame, a body burned to ash. But what does all of this teach us, in the real world? How does this reveal knowledge about the things which surround us? What is monstrous, and what is not? Just as Romance and horror coalesce into something new and resonant, these two creatures, so seemingly separate in their nature, have a greater lesson to teach us, through their commonality. So then, what do the two beasts share?
Two Hearts, One Flesh
In both the original and the adaptation, the monster is damned by his birth. Whether child or intellectual, the monster is called monstrous first on his appearance, first on his origin. Before he is given a chance to speak, to breathe, the monster’s mere existence is an affront to mankind. It does not matter if he is intelligent, or stupid. Kind or cruel. Wise or foolish, graceful or stumbling. Frankenstein’s monster is monstrous because of Frankenstein. The actions which led to his creation are the core monstrosity. The monster itself is, and has always been, secondary.
A funny thing happens when you take a nameless thing, and you give it widespread popularity. People can dress up as a ghost or a witch, as Dracula or Blackbeard, but how do they dress up as a nothing? A something? When a stranger asks about their costume, what should they say? In the mouths of our children, the nameless monster became Frankenstein. No one dresses up as Victor for Halloween. If this occurred for any other creature, perhaps it would be a travesty. But for Frankenstein, it is oddly appropriate. Unlike so many other monsters, Frankenstein is defined by his creation. By his creator. Take that away, and you get something much more akin to bigfoot. Myth, not monster. A strange quirk of the universe, not a horrific glimpse past the veil. No matter what version of the monster you look at, Frankenstein is always better, kinder, more innocent as he exists present tense. His birth is always his lowest point, something which bookwriter and filmmaker alike try to bring him back from. He never quite gets there, never quite manages to overcome his monstrous beginnings, but through innocence or passion, he tries. He is the only monster which fundamentally strives to overcome monstrosity.
This leads us to what makes Frankenstein uniquely monstrous, among the chattering cacophony of Hallowed costumery. The best monsters within our fictional canon always manage to find some framework to latch on to. Some lesson to teach, or a specific phobia to prod. Zombies, like Frankenstein, are the dead brought to life; but they can represent an overwhelming, ever-present threat, or mock the hordes of brain-dead people who still live. Vampires are the danger present in seduction, the horror of beautiful mirages in the night. So, what is the lesson which Frankenstein teaches us?
If I had to answer that question before embarking on my little quest, I think I would have said that Frankenstein is a warning against scientific progress. Against playing God, and reaching further than mankind ought reach. And while that’s a fine surface level reading of the text, I now believe that it falls short. That has always been the start of any Frankenstein story. Act one. It is the framework, which is then explored. Once you dig deeper, you find little nudges within the narrative. Small moments which question the core premise, and encourage the audience to empathize, even just a little bit, with the creature. To understand that the monster has not been made monstrous by its own merit, but by another’s. Frankenstein isn’t simply a repudiation of scientific progress. It is also a reprimand against the idea that scientific progress should condemn a new being to a horrific death, or a life of misery, irrespective of its inmost nature. When the creature is wounded, when people look upon it and shudder, it is worth asking why. Why is the monster shot, shunned, beaten, and burned?
Within his own story, he is a fiction. Life cannot be brought about from dead materials. No one, not even his own creator, can truly understand what thoughts are in his head, or what actions he might take. Within this fictitious existence, Frankenstein loses the benefit of the doubt; the customary kindness which we extend to any other human before they prove themselves undeserving. He is taken at face value, and his face is hideously inhuman. In all its incarnations, Frankenstein is a tale of both the horrors of rampant progress, and the horror of violently rejecting that progress outright. In both stories, the monster’s suffering outpaces that of all others. In both stories, the monster is declared an abomination the moment it is born. Neither script is willing to say that this is fully justified.
So then, what does it mean, to be monstrous? Through the tale of a scientist and his creation, we find that it means so many things. To create irresponsibly. To abandon callously. To act with cruel intention. To innocently destroy. To merely exist. To condemn, upon the basis of mere existence. In its broadest sense, to be monstrous is to be against humanity. Antithetical to it. Of all the monstrous narratives which echo in the public ear, I believe that Frankenstein makes this position the clearest. In these twin stories, some form of monstrosity lies in every heart. Its warnings are for both mankind, and anything which arises separate from it. Its lessons are for scientists and moldbreakers, for monsters and the downtrodden, for onlookers and indignants. I suppose that means its most valuable insights come once we recognize our place in the world. Seems appropriate. I’ve always been partial to a story that meets its audience halfway.