During my time as an undergraduate, I was pleasantly surprised to find that I would be studying the prose of Mary Shelley—particularly her groundbreaking novel Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus. The latter title stuck with me. It wasn’t just a Sci-Fi spectacle but a legendary exploration of one man’s futile effort to defy God. Dr. Frankenstein’s scientific advancements surpass the expansion of knowledge as a means to understand the meaning of life (and the universe), and he soon finds himself attempting to disrupt the order of existence in a non-secular world.
Through her exploration of gothic set pieces and themes through the lens of dark Romanticism, Shelley has been cemented among the great Western literary canon. More so, she defied the expectations of a world dominated by men, shining so bright as not to be ignored. And she was hardly 20 years old when the book was published. Shelley was a master of her craft and Frankenstein is documented proof of her unchained imagination, equally genius and enlightened. I remember my studies of Shelley as I continue my analysis of the Universal Monsters, following my first article on the Wolf Man, and—more recently—Dracula.
And On the Sixth Day…
There are countless ways to interpret Shelley’s novel, particularly the relationship between Frankenstein and his monstrous creation. More than 100 films adapt or adopt the premise of the novel, many of which explore this relationship, including the 1931 Universal classic, the various Hammer Films productions, the 2014 disasterpiece I, Frankenstein, and even such exploitative efforts as Frank Henonlatter’s Frankenhooker and Larry Fessenden’s Depraved. There is even an upcoming adaptation of Universal’s Bride of Frankenstein, written and directed by Maggie Gyllenhaal. The character—or caricature—of Adam (as the monster sometimes refers to himself) has become an icon of the horror subculture since he arrived on the scene. But his relationship with the mad scientist who (re)birthed him leaves many avenues of analysis for any audience member willing to give the scenario a second thought.
One interpretation—in which I owe credit to Anne Mellor for her lecture “Mothering Monsters: Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein”—explores themes of womb envy. The novel’s baser portrayal of a man who yearns to bear an offspring of his own volition presents a twisted reflection of the physically and emotionally painful process experienced by women. And while the efforts themself are significantly more socially grotesque than the female experience, the results are extremely disastrous. In a modern sense, Adam experiences a lack of the characteristic love more traditionally attributed to the matriarch (unless it’s a Stephen King novel). Or, in Nietzschean terms, the traditional childbirth becomes Apollonian—or structured—while Dr. Frankenstein’s experiments drift into the Dionysian—or unrestrained. Rather than sacrifice his own body to create life, the doctor uses the discarded remains of the dead. His attention is not directed toward the experience or comfort of the offspring but to the success of his own intellectual endeavor.
Alone in the Cosmos
H.P. Lovecraft best describes the effects of cosmic horror in the opening of his story “The Call of Cthulhu.” Lovecraft writes,
“The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents. We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far. The sciences, each straining in its own direction, have hitherto harmed us little; but some day the piecing together of dissociated knowledge will open up such terrifying vistas of reality, and of our frightful position therein, that we shall either go mad from the revelation or flee from the deadly light into the peace and safety of a new dark age.”
Deep within the core of Shelley’s novel lies the revelation that life is not the result of an aetherial will but the consequence of “natural” circumstances. One scientist’s efforts to harness nature as a means to enact a miracle results in the existence of consciousness, and not just consciousness but a consciousness separate from its parts. More succinctly, despite Dr. Frankenstein’s use of discarded body parts, including a brain, produces the existence of a being completely new to the world. Adam is not a revitalization of the person whose mind he now inhabits. His response to being torn into existence is not a question of “how,” but “why?”
Fear and Loathing
The quandary of a world without God emphasizes the horror described by Lovecraft. Science exceeds the threshold of necessity and produces a realization that life is not only meaningless but painful (pessimistic, I know). Written during the adolescence of the Romantic period, Frankenstein swiftly extinguished the ideology of the Enlightenment era that supposed the importance of religious sentiment. We are then asked to ponder scientific advancement. Although it is undeniable science has advanced the human race medically and ecologically, where do we draw the line, and what are we willing to lose in the process? During the Age of Enlightenment, a religious predisposition allowed for anyone to continue through times of hardship and despair (for this is God’s will)—a sentiment still held by many today—but what does the acknowledgment of a world without a higher power ultimately mean and how do we continue to exist morally without said power?
I confess I’m not a religious person, but these are certainly questions worth pondering when considering the deeper philosophical implications of Frankenstein. The monster is, itself, a horrific figure within the story, but it is truly not so different from you or me. It didn’t ask to be born, and now it is afraid to live and afraid to die. It recognizes the fear of death enough to use it as a threat against the madman that forced it into existence. And if existence is pain, as it certainly is for the monster, then what is the point of living? This is the complex horror of Frankenstein, and the doctor ultimately pays for his sins, first through the death of those close to him and ultimately of himself. He becomes Prometheus, tortured into eternity for his attempt to sneak into the real of the Gods and return with evidence of his venture.
