Director: James Whale
Writers: John L. Balderston, Mary Shelley, Peggy Webling, Francis Edward Faragon, Garrett Fort, Richard Schayer, Robert Florey, John Russell
Photography: Arthur Edeson, Paul Ivano
Music: Bernhard Kaun
Editor: Clarence Kolster
Cast: Boris Karloff, Colin Clive, Mae Clarke, John Boles, Edward Van Sloan, Frederick Kerr, Dwight Frey, Marilyn Harris
The original film production of Mary Shelley’s landmark Frankenstein novel (written when she was 19) incredibly is now almost a century old itself. As a kid I used to stay up late to get a look at it whenever I could. The two bridge tables of writers credited at IMDb for the screenplay are a reasonable approximation of the convoluted history of the Shelley property, originally published in 1818 and followed in five years by the first of a long series of stage productions. The most recent before this movie was put on just in 1927—Peggy Webling wrote that. Balderston adapted her play for this script, with story elements by Schayer. It sounds like Faragon and Fort actually blocked out and typed up the screenplay, with uncredited contributions from Florey and Russell. Director James Whale puts his own stamp on it, including hiring Boris Karloff out of the commissary to play the monster. Whale reportedly liked him for the part because he thought Karloff resembled himself. While I’m at it, makeup artist and designer Jack P. Pierce also counts as an auteur on this enterprise. He is responsible for the look and feel of the Frankenstein monster as we think of it today, including the flattop head, neck bolts, and tattered outfit.
The short picture starts in a curious way, often lopped off of the TV broadcasts. The gentle and mild-mannered Edward Van Sloan (who plays Henry Frankenstein’s mentor Dr. Waldman in the movie proper) steps out from behind a theatrical curtain to issue a friendly warning about the movie: “It is one of the strangest tales ever told. It deals with the two great mysteries of creation: life and death. I think it will thrill you. It may shock you. It might even horrify you. So if any of you feel that you do not care to subject your nerves to such a strain, now is your chance to, uh... well, we've warned you.” And then on to the opening titles.
The original film production of Mary Shelley’s landmark Frankenstein novel (written when she was 19) incredibly is now almost a century old itself. As a kid I used to stay up late to get a look at it whenever I could. The two bridge tables of writers credited at IMDb for the screenplay are a reasonable approximation of the convoluted history of the Shelley property, originally published in 1818 and followed in five years by the first of a long series of stage productions. The most recent before this movie was put on just in 1927—Peggy Webling wrote that. Balderston adapted her play for this script, with story elements by Schayer. It sounds like Faragon and Fort actually blocked out and typed up the screenplay, with uncredited contributions from Florey and Russell. Director James Whale puts his own stamp on it, including hiring Boris Karloff out of the commissary to play the monster. Whale reportedly liked him for the part because he thought Karloff resembled himself. While I’m at it, makeup artist and designer Jack P. Pierce also counts as an auteur on this enterprise. He is responsible for the look and feel of the Frankenstein monster as we think of it today, including the flattop head, neck bolts, and tattered outfit.
The short picture starts in a curious way, often lopped off of the TV broadcasts. The gentle and mild-mannered Edward Van Sloan (who plays Henry Frankenstein’s mentor Dr. Waldman in the movie proper) steps out from behind a theatrical curtain to issue a friendly warning about the movie: “It is one of the strangest tales ever told. It deals with the two great mysteries of creation: life and death. I think it will thrill you. It may shock you. It might even horrify you. So if any of you feel that you do not care to subject your nerves to such a strain, now is your chance to, uh... well, we've warned you.” And then on to the opening titles.
Even by 1931 the Frankenstein story, after a century of stage adaptations and a rewrite by Shelley in 1831, had become a bizarre mélange of shifting story details. Whale and his writers felt free to make small changes all over the place. They renamed Victor Frankenstein Henry, for example, because they deemed “Victor” too severe. Then they named Henry Frankenstein’s girlfriend’s side squeeze, a loyal spaniel of a guy, Victor Moritz (John Boles)—who if anything is the opposite of severe. I think at least one of their battery of changes was a good one, namely making the brain that is stolen and given to the monster specifically “abnormal,” even though that, in turn, conflicts with the monster’s supposedly misunderstood and unbesmirched innocent character. “Muddled, thy name is Frankenstein,” but never mind.
As a picture released before adoption of the Hays Code in 1934, that is, “pre-Code,” Frankenstein has some interesting points. The scene where the monster tosses a 6-year-old girl into a lake, for example, thinking she would float like the flowers they’ve been playing with. She drowns instead, which was controversial in its time, though arguably necessary for the drama. Also, Henry has a notably bad case of hubris, saying things like, “Think of it. The brain of a dead man waiting to live again in a body I made with my own hands” (looking at those same hands: “With my own hands”). In the scene bringing the monster to life, Henry famously shrieks, “It’s alive! It’s alive! In the name of God, now I know what it feels like to be God!” That probably would not have survived the Hays Code censors.
Henry says stuff like that a lot and then he’s also sensitive about being called crazy, the usual telltale sign of a madman. It's also possible that the small Bavarian village here is the original source of a marauding mob with torches and pitchforks, except no visible pitchforks. Another addition to the Frankenstein canon that is not in the original Shelley novel is the homunculus assistant, called Fritz here, Karl in Bride of Frankenstein, and Igor (pronounced “eye-gore”) in Young Frankenstein, the three essential Frankenstein pictures. When Fritz, here, learns the monster is afraid of fire he spends many delightful hours tormenting him with a torch, until the monster erupts on him and kills him in some way they don’t show and won’t speak about.
Even by the time I was staying up late as a kid to see it, in the 1960s, Frankenstein was not particularly scary as such. It’s slow and ponderous, hampered to modern eyes somewhat by the technology of the time (tracking shots often wobble, for example). But I’ve seen it many times and have to say I’m still impressed with a lot of it. It may not subject my nerves to the strain that Van Sloan warned of, but Pierce’s vision of the monster and Boris Karloff himself still make it memorable. Henry Frankenstein (Colin Clive) is amusingly arrogant—I enjoy all his petulant outbursts. The interlude with the little girl, Maria, is still surprisingly wrenching. The monster did not mean her harm, he is only responding to her kindness. Or that’s the idea. And the big finish, all consumed in flames and everything absolutely burning down, remains outstanding. Frankenstein shows its age in many ways, good as well as bad, but I think it still remains an essential stop for anyone who’s into movies or classic horror or both.
As a picture released before adoption of the Hays Code in 1934, that is, “pre-Code,” Frankenstein has some interesting points. The scene where the monster tosses a 6-year-old girl into a lake, for example, thinking she would float like the flowers they’ve been playing with. She drowns instead, which was controversial in its time, though arguably necessary for the drama. Also, Henry has a notably bad case of hubris, saying things like, “Think of it. The brain of a dead man waiting to live again in a body I made with my own hands” (looking at those same hands: “With my own hands”). In the scene bringing the monster to life, Henry famously shrieks, “It’s alive! It’s alive! In the name of God, now I know what it feels like to be God!” That probably would not have survived the Hays Code censors.
Henry says stuff like that a lot and then he’s also sensitive about being called crazy, the usual telltale sign of a madman. It's also possible that the small Bavarian village here is the original source of a marauding mob with torches and pitchforks, except no visible pitchforks. Another addition to the Frankenstein canon that is not in the original Shelley novel is the homunculus assistant, called Fritz here, Karl in Bride of Frankenstein, and Igor (pronounced “eye-gore”) in Young Frankenstein, the three essential Frankenstein pictures. When Fritz, here, learns the monster is afraid of fire he spends many delightful hours tormenting him with a torch, until the monster erupts on him and kills him in some way they don’t show and won’t speak about.
Even by the time I was staying up late as a kid to see it, in the 1960s, Frankenstein was not particularly scary as such. It’s slow and ponderous, hampered to modern eyes somewhat by the technology of the time (tracking shots often wobble, for example). But I’ve seen it many times and have to say I’m still impressed with a lot of it. It may not subject my nerves to the strain that Van Sloan warned of, but Pierce’s vision of the monster and Boris Karloff himself still make it memorable. Henry Frankenstein (Colin Clive) is amusingly arrogant—I enjoy all his petulant outbursts. The interlude with the little girl, Maria, is still surprisingly wrenching. The monster did not mean her harm, he is only responding to her kindness. Or that’s the idea. And the big finish, all consumed in flames and everything absolutely burning down, remains outstanding. Frankenstein shows its age in many ways, good as well as bad, but I think it still remains an essential stop for anyone who’s into movies or classic horror or both.
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