Frankenstein at Age 196: A Sublime Tragedy and Monstrous Film

Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, born August 30, 1797 began writing Frankenstein at age 18 and completed her masterpiece the following year… How time flies! 

  

And how time has mutated the essence of the story. Unless you have read the unabridged text you probably have no idea whatsoever, not a clue, of the tragedy, sweep, depth, power, and genius of this work!

At least I had no clue before reading the book in 2013. Of course I read the “Classic Comic” version roundabout age 11, have seen the famous 1931 Boris Karloff movie, and at least a hundred clips from scores of Hollywood derivatives. Many of these are great fun in their own right, some even scary, yet none begin to intimate the book’s depth, sweep, psychological horror, and tragedy.

The book’s horror is at least 90% psychological, nearly independent of the iconic, cinematic “horror” characterizing the derivative works. Yes, the Monster’s hideous aspect and crimes pervade the narrative mood, but the most profound horrors lay in the choices its Creator Victor Frankenstein must make, and in the unfolding of their inevitable, tragic consequences.

Indeed, the book is a classic tragedy, and doubly so - Victor Frankenstein and his Monster are classic tragic heroes as defined by Aristotle two thousand years ago: figures of noble character who are undone by hubris (usually over-reaching pride or ambition); whose punishments exceed their faults; who discover self-knowledge through their suffering; and whose fates arouse pity, fear, awe, and ultimately catharsis in the audience. In less elevated, more contemporary language, I was simply “blown away.”

What especially surprised me in the book was the Monster’s deep humanity. Excepting size and appearance, the Monster was, in mind, sensibility, and longing for connection, every bit his creator’s equal. Both figures, possessed of noble if different characters, are entangled and conflicted within a Creator/Creation relationship which drives the terrifying, inexorable demise of both, each demise magnified by the fundamental nobility of the fallen.

The excruciating drama plays against backdrops of city and nature, which adds to the story’s telling, but the moral backdrop creates far more power. The Monster calls himself (in relation to Frankenstein) “thy Adam,” and the work is informed by references to Milton’s Paradise Lost and to Lucifer’s rebellion against his Creator. In this regard, the Monster makes an astonishing but valid complaint: Lucifer had at least fellow rebel angels, while the Monster, despised by all men, is utterly alone, his Creator having created no Eve, no “Other” at all.

Illustration by Theodor von Holst from the frontispiece of the 1831 edition: Victor Frankenstein (standing)  becoming disgusted at his creation.

  

Comparing the 1931 movie to the 1817 book:

·         Shelley’s Monster is noble and supremely articulate, his Creator’s equal, but the film’s Monster can only grunt; incapable of speech, demented, and the accidental recipient of a criminal’s brain.

·         Shelley’s horror is 90% psychological, driven by the enormity of tragic consequences, while the film’s horror is primarily driven by the Monster’s appearance and rampage.

·         Shelley’s story is about ideas: what makes us human, what duties do the Creator and the Creation owe each other, and what are the consequences when these duties are denied; while the film explores no idea at all.

·         Shelley’s work is a doubly classic tragedy, while the film has a sappy-happy ending: the Monster destroyed, the interrupted wedding will proceed, with winks and grins.

·         One sole comparison favors the film: Shelley gives practically no hint as to how the Monster was animated, while the film’s iconic electrical storm animation was, and remains to this day, terrific, wonderful, and awesome cinema.

Copies of the book reside in both the adult and “YA” (young adult/teen) sections, and it is interesting to consider its readability for contemporary readers:

First, the book’s language is fundamentally modern, though some word usage is somewhat archaic; such as “terrific,” “wonderful,” and “awesome,” words I used just three lines above. Terrific means “having the power to terrify” and not “great, wonderful, etc”; “wonderful” means “having the power to inspire wonder,” and not just “really good”; and “awesome” means having the power to inspire awe, while today “awesome” means nothing at all, as far as I can tell; any statement these days might trigger “Awesome!” from a listener. Frankly I enjoy “archaic” usage. Modernity, and especially pop culture, have ravaged the expressive power of language over the past hundred years … a holocaust of meaning.

Somewhat more challenging are long sentences and somewhat complex sentence structure. But this challenge should not be too severe; it is nothing like reading some of Poe’s more convoluted stories.

Shelley’s vocabulary is relatively easy. At least I did not have to look up too many words. Not at all like some Poe tales, salted with words like apothegm, hermeneutics, and genuflect (just a few I had to look up last Halloween eve). Yet looking up words is one of the pleasures of reading, or it can be. So if “young adults” or “teens” or even “old adults” have to look up a few words that cannot be divined per context, so much the better.

Finally, the language is quite overwrought by contemporary standards; people just don’t talk like that anymore, if they ever did. This does require some patience, and by page 130 I was less patient than at page 100. But page 131 began chapter 10, wherein Frankenstein meets his Monster for the first time since having created him several months earlier. Finally the Monster speaks, and from that point on I was utterly captivated.

In defense of Shelley, the overwrought language can be, and in this case is, an effective device when dealing with “high-minded” themes. Moby Dick is another case in point: Melville’s masterpiece was initially panned by critics for that very reason: “Sea captains don’t talk like that! It lacks verisimilitude!” Ah, but it worked!

In summary, Frankenstein (the book) is a complex, sophisticated, astonishing tragedy of imaginative genius, written 196 years ago and entirely readable today. Furthermore, today’s reading offers something beyond what Mary Shelley could have imagined: a profoundly sad commentary on Hollywood’s artistic values and pop culture’s relentless desecration of meaning in language. It is simply monstrous.

Stephen Rowe welcomes correspondence of all sort at StephenRowe.OriGraphics@yahoo.com

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