Frankenstein (1931)

Frankenstein (James Whale, 1931)

After the success of Tod Browning's Dracula (1931), Universal Studios began production for an adaptation of Mary Shelley's novel about a scientist who recreates life. The production was originally to be directed by Robert Florey, and the monster was to be played by Dracula star Bela Lugosi. However, Florey was later replaced by rising director James Whale, and Lugosi backed out of the role since there wasn't a single line spoken in the monster role, hurting his ego. Boris Karloff was given the role of the monster and the rest, as cliche as it may sound, is history. James Whale's Frankenstein, despite its substantial difference to Shelley's novel, is the most enduring version of the tale. Ahead of its time, the film remarkably put a sympathetic human trait to the monster, blurring the edges of the notion that monsters are purely evil. Here, the monster is portrayed as misunderstood child, not a terrorizing fiend.

Henry Frankenstein (Colin Clive), kicked out of medical school for his insane obsession of creating life, has holed himself in an abandoned watchtower with Fritz (Dwight Frye), his hunchbacked assistant. Elizabeth (Mae Clarke), Henry's fiancee, and Victor (John Bowles), his best friend, have become worried over Henry's long absence and decided to see what he's up to. They bring along Henry's professor Dr. Waldman (Edward Van Sloan) to the watchtower where they witness the birth of Frankenstein's monster (Karloff).

The film offers us two variations of the monster. The most obvious one is of course, Frankenstein's creation and the other is Henry Frankenstein himself. In one of the film's early scenes, Frankenstein and his assistant are shown waiting on a burial and right after the mourners have left, the two start exhuming the remains in frenzied abandon. Thereafter, they steal a corpse tied to a post, and finally, the assistant robs from the medical university a freshly harvested brain (of a criminal, though). Whale shows Frankenstein as utterly insane, equal to being blasphemous. Frankenstein's obsession is not entirely for mere discovery, but for being equal to God, as shown when his experiment was accomplished and with disquieting glee, he announces that he knows how he feels to be God. Whale's Henry Frankenstein is not merely a mad scientist, but an insatiable beast. He represents man in its most insatiable, whose inability to be satisfied has caused him to puncture the threshold of what is moral, all in the name of science.

Once Henry Frankenstein recovers from this insanity, he becomes less interesting. Thus, Whale focuses his attention to the other monster and depicts him with touches of humanity despite its terrifying exterior. We first see the monster in a scene where Henry Frankenstein tries to show Dr. Waldman that there is nothing evil with his creation. Truly, the monster's first sequences show him as a child with very little motor skills and cognitive understanding. Like a toddler learning how to walk, he carefully steps toward his father, Frankenstein. This culminates in one of the film's most beautiful scenes where Henry Frankenstein opens a window, and the monster, attracted towards the light, stretches his arms to gather the illumination. It is a scene that summarizes the conflict within the monster: it is inherently a product of twisted morality, but is in itself, searching for light. That scene also foreshadows a more important sequence that will follow, where the monster commits murder, not out of spite or out of his brain's criminal tendencies, but out of childlike innocence.

Whale's tragic depiction of the monster may probably be understood as a reflection of his homosexuality within the conservative social framework of the thirties. It's a valid point as Shelley's novel depicts the monster as what it really is, a murderous monster. However, the more interesting reading of the monster's humanity is the fact that the monster is indeed just a child, and because of its imposing features, is misunderstood by everyone except, initially by its creator, and another creature of innocence, a little girl who welcomes the monster undaunted, but attracted to it as if it were a peer. The monster's attraction towards beautiful things, and its violent reaction towards pain and fear are mere attachments of its supposed youth.

Frankenstein became Whale's ticket to success. Despite having directed a few features before it, it was Frankenstein that put him in the map, and deservedly so. Whale's direction here is sublime. His imagery ranges from beautiful to simply poetic. Another masterfully directed sequence is when a father walks by the town, carrying the lifeless body of his daughter. He starts alone, and Whale shows the shocked faces of the townpeople who were only a few minutes ago, joyfully celebrating. Slowly, the the single man multiplies and turns into a whole mob of angry townsfolk out to destroy Frankenstein's monster. The monster's demise is much more poignant: a little misunderstood child, wailing and crying, trapped inside a burning windmill surrounded by the same townspeople who have judged it as evil way before understanding what it truly is.

Dracula (1931)

Dracula (Tod Browning, 1931)

Despite the many reincarnations of Count Dracula in film, from Francis Ford Coppola's more baroque and literal Dracula to Wes Craven's more liberal approach, it is the official first, not taking the fact that Murnau's Noseferatu (1922) was the first unofficial adaptation of Bram Stoker's vampire novel, that still haunts the collective consciousness of the public. Tod Browning's Dracula was the start of a craze. It was a box office hit and resulted in Universal Studios to commission James Whale into filming Frankenstein (1931), hoping to get the exact, if not better, box office results of their first monster movie. It is a success because it sort of played with the audience's xenophobic tendencies, pushing them away from their comfort zones and replacing these zones with characters with heavily accentuated Eastern European butchering of the English language and locales that imply a sense of mystery coupled with the grave understanding that danger is near.

Browning's film starts in absolute majesty and mystery. A carriage is shown travelling down a mountain pass. Browning then shows a conversation inside the carriage. A man warns his fellow passengers to be wary of the night as it is the night that Nosferatu and her brides are stalking for victims. The resulting scenes create a heavier atmosphere of impending terror. The village where the carriage stops are inhabited by men and women whose faces clearly outline an unspeakable fear. When English real estate agent Renfield (Dwight Frye) insists that he be driven to the mountain pass as another carriage is waiting for him there at midnight, the villagers pleads that he stay the night. Upon speaking that it is Count Dracula's carriage that is awaiting him, the villagers withdraw in obvious fear and just offer him a crucifix to protect him.

The film reaches its peak when Renfield finally arrives in Count Dracula's castle. The castle is magnificent. Despite its appearance of decay, it still shows impressions of a former opulence. Huge pillars adorn the vast hallway and its centerpiece is a wide stairway, although sadly adorned by cobwebs gives off a stature of awe. Dracula (Bela Lugosi) welcomes Renfield. His distinct accent breaks the long minutes of silence. Dracula, using Renfield as his pawn, finally makes his way to London and lures a doctor's beautiful daughter Mina (Helen Chandler), only to be stopped by Professor Van Helsing (Edward Van Sloan) and Mina's sweetheart John (David Manners).

I mentioned that the film reaches its peak in Count Dracula's castle, which is a scene that is scarcely fifteen minutes from the beginning. When the film reaches the part where Dracula reaches London, the gothic magnificence of the early scenes is transformed into a rather bland affair. Bogged down by a sudden change in atmosphere, the film struggles to imitate the dormant horror depicted in the early scenes. Most of the scenes are executed theatrically. Moreover, the romantic interludes between Mina and John are simply meandering. John comes off as a whiny, bratty, and insignificant sidekick to the curious, more reasonable, and rational Professor Van Helsing. The explanation scenes right in the middle of the film stunts the film's capacity for horror, despite the fact that Dracula does make quick appearances to pump up these scenes of revelation. It is only when another gigantic setpiece is introduced, the abbey where Dracula takes his day breaks, that the film again touches the level of horror it introduced us with. The huge staircase where a murder would take place, the underground graveyard, the wooden doors, are not as memorable as Count Dracula's castle but are enough to give an end to this classic horror feature.

Tod Browning's direction here feels impeded especially when compared to his work in Freaks (1932). The film shines when the scenes are blanketed with silence which allows the audience to marvel at Browning's visual treats. This is after all Browning's first sound film, and it shows him struggling with the new medium. However, there's a certain mastery in the visuals: Count Dracula's castle, the vampires waking up with only their fingers appearing from the open lids of their coffins, the foggy mountain pass, the three brides of the count slowly walking towards an unconscious Renfield, the hypnotizing eyes of the famous count. They are all wonderfully staged and marvelously photographed by cinematographer Karl Freund. The film derives its horror from these nightmarish images rather than from the sloppy storytelling. The dialogues are insignificant save for a few insightful conversations such as the count's brief conversation with Mina's friend Lucy (Frances Dade) about the notion that there are some things much worse than death.

The film then truly belongs to Bela Lugosi, who donned the vampire's affluent clothes and gave this version of Dracula near-immortal status. Lugosi's stylish depictions of the famous vampire are clear and effective, delivering a sense of dread to his openly foreign character. Even Lugosi's faults, his linguistic deficiency, has added to the charm that will forever inhabit the character. Lugosi's acting style is a mixture of both the overemphasized body movements of the silent era and the more audible, more repressed facial expressions of the sound era. Despite the several attempts to poke humor into Lugosi's portrayal in several future films, upon viewing of Browning's film, Lugosi still terrifies, signifying that despite the film having aged, it is still pertinent.