Prometheus burned

Frankenstein

(1931)

I forget how great this is. It's clear where lie the sympathies of director James Whale, who knew a little about being an outcast, but I think the dimwitted producers must have thought they were making a film about how humanity triumphs over its own hubris and the beast thence born. But really--with the exception of little Maria, the only person to show the "monster" any compassion, and then Maria's grieving father, is there a person born of woman who demands or receives from us anything better than superior tolerance (for Baron Frankenstein [Frederick Kerr] and maybe for Elizabeth [Mae Clarke])? The rest, especially the men of science--Henry Frankenstein (Colin Clive), his former mentor Dr. Waldman (Edward Van Sloan), and his hunchbacked assistant Fritz (Dwight Frye)--are right pricks, two of whom get what they deserve and the third much less. Henry's critics tell him that he's playing God, and in fact, that is the problem--not that he's usurping the Creator's lifegiving power, but that he's behaving like the God of most believers' experience: a sadistic, pitiless manipulator.

Karloff's mute, nameless protagonist, on the other hand, is one of the most heartrending victims in cinematic history, given by his creator only enough resources to make of life a hell on Earth.