Famous Monsters of Filmland: Bride of Frankenstein (Dir James Whale, 1h15m, 1935)

Nothing encapsules the good and bad of the horror movie like a sequel. Thought they were dead? No they're not. They're back (again). Thought they were locked up for good? They're back out and ready to murder another interchangable bunch of high-schoolers, on a higher, or lower, budget, with a few new ideas. Thought this was it? Nope, this is a prequel. Or a reimagining. Or a reboot. Thought this film was another outing for monstrously evil serial killing maniacs? Nope, it's a metatextual exploration of horror movies, or a gender-reversed flick about his equally homicidal offspring, or his long-lost girlfriend, or it's an unrelated film about killer masks and the jauntiest tune in horror cinema, or it's a team-up, or a versus. Or maybe it's just in space.

Yes, for decades, the horror movie has enjoyed seemingly endless sequels, and Universal's monster movies are no exception; Frankenstein and Dracula quickly gain successors, bump into other monsters, and 1940 superstars, Abbott and Costello, before the franchise comes to an end in the early 50s, and gives way to the gore and beloved camp of Hammer, who proceed to turn each to a veritable franchises in whic Cushing's Baron Frankenstein and the legendary Christopher Lee's Dracula, together with the Mummy, made multiple returns to the big screen to terrify British audiences, and onward into the 70s and 80s where Universal once more took back control of their monsters, to wreak havoc once more.

To find out where this fascination with the horror sequel began, though, we need to go back to the 1930s, and one final time, to the original Universal Monster Movies, in a sequel to Frankenstein that not only introduces one of horror's greatest female characters, and improves on almost every element of the original, from score to special effects to acting and tone, but also marks the ending of this first, and greatest wave of horror cinema from Universal, with the arrival of the moralistic Hays Code, the end of Universal as a true power in making imaginative and cutting edge horror movies under the Lammle family, and, most tragically, the final film James Whale would make in the horror genre. 

Once again, we must return to the post-release period of a film we have previously talked about-but in this case, of course, this comes in the aftermath of Frankenstein, not Dracula-a sequel has, arguably, been on Universal's mind since before the film's general release, to give the film a sequel hook in the form of Henry Frankenstein(Colin Clive, one of a few actors to return for the sequel)'s survival. Whale, meanwhile, is not interested, and the idea is passed on to Kurt Neumann. Neumann himself refuses, and teams Karloff and Lugosi up for The Black Cat, an astonishingly successful film about insidious cults that pits the duo against each other for the first of eight films. Whale, thus, agrees to direct, in return for getting to make the drama One More River, also starring Clive as an abusive husband in upper class England.

Whale's tack with the sequel very different-perhaps knowing he cannot top his film, he decides to take it in a somewhat different direction; the monster, despite Karloff's remonstrations, is going to speak! Moreover, as Balderston, pores through the novel, a sequence from the book presents itself, in which Victor creates, and then destroys before animation, a mate for the monster, with Balderston also adding a sequence at the beginning with Mary Shelley, Percy Bysshe Shelley,  and Byron discussing a possible continuation to the story. Whale, growing tired of the slow progress on the script, hands it over to the unsung William Hurlbut, and Edmund Pearson, an early pioneer of the true crime genre. Moreover, by this point, Whale, Laemmle and Universal had to content with more than just critical and financial critques. They now had Joseph Breen, and the machinations of the Hays Code to please.

By the end of the 1920s, cinema was entering its mid 20s, and had become, in the eyes of some authorities, wracked with scandal-silent film director William Desmond Taylor had been shot dead in his home. His death had overturned a veritable log in Hollywood, and the media and filmgoers alike had been hooked on what scuttled forth, from crooked valets to cocaine-addled starlets to former child stars and pushy parents-as of 2022, the case remains unsolved. Even more sordid was the alleged rape and murder of Virginia Rappe by then colossally famous and influential actor/director, Roscoe "Fatty" Arbuckle, leading to boycotts and blacklisting of his films by religious, proto-feminist and even trade union groups. Whilst aquitted, his career never recovered, and much of his filmography, including early appearances by Chaplin and Keaton was either destroyed, lost, or unseen until modern restoration in the past decade.

Moreover, two points empowered Hays-Hollywood's image needed to be rehabilitated; in the past decade, prohibition had led to gangsters and corruption, baseball had been rocked by the still-infamous 1919 World Series gambling scandal, and now cinema was in the doghouse. Secondly, and perhaps less excitingly, film censorship was scattergun-many studios disagreed on exactly what to depict, legislation was inconsistent, and rather than have to contend with having to cut a single film dozens of times to meet local standards, they eventually decided to place this in the hands of one man, Will H Hays, the former Postmaster General, and former head of the Republican National Committee; Hays in effect, quickly became a mediator between cinema and politicians. At this point, in 1927, they become guidelines-things to be careful of, rather than things that must be adhered to. Jason Joy, head of the committee didn't want to enforce it (neither did his successor, Dr James Wingate), they had little staff to enforce it, and little power to do so, or indeed to keep up with the studios' output. Added to this, the 1920s and early 30s were an undeniably libertine, and the hardships of the Great Depression pushed studios to wilder and wilder excesses.

This was all about to change. Enter Martin Quigley, a Catholic, and owner of Motion Picture Herald and Jesuit Priest, Daniel A Lord, who promptly rewrote the Code as a strongly Catholic and moral set of commands, underpinned by the chief idea of good being right, and evil wrong. Cinema becomes less escapism, and more moral teacher; villains cannot triumph, homosexuality essentially disappears off the screen, as does any positive depiction of out-of-marriage relationships, racial mingling, and any form of smut became, as the Code's amendment rolled out in 1934, under Catholic Joseph I Breen, derigeur. Breen's biggest control, of course, became that of OK'ing and rubberstamping a seal of approval onto each film-without it, films simply could not be released in any meaningful way, and would face a hefty fine. In short, Breen becomes the unwanted script doctor, editor (personally cutting scenes out of several films), and producer to your picture, and his little red pen is everywhere, from Casablanca to Hitchcock's Rebecca to vetoing Anti-Nazi films before the US joined the Second World War.

Needless to say, Breen had it in for Bride of Frankenstein. Out was Henry playing God, out were the number of murders, but here we must turn to the film itself; we begin with Mary Shelley (one of two roles by the incomparable Elsa Lancaster, the other being the Bride herself), Percy Bysshe Shelley,  and Byron discussing the story Mary has written, and its possible continuation; via clever reuse of footage we arrive back at the destruction of the windmill, with the monster (Karloff, of course) seemingly dead, and Henry being taken back to Elizabeth. Here, undeniably, we see the impact of the Code-Elizabeth is barely in the film, barely does much aside from fall into hysterics and fear of death for much of the movie, only becoming active when someone needs to save Henry from his own creation. Of course, this being the ur-horror sequel, the monster is very much alive, and promptly throws both of the parents of the murdered girl from the previous film to their death, terrifies another and promptly escapes.

It is here that the film introduces its secret weapon, in the form of the sinister, and masterfully played, Dr Septimus Pretorius (Ernest Thesiger); and it here that we must examine, at least in passing, the film's queer subtext-Whale was, of course, gay, as was Thesinger (there are suggestions that Clive may well have been bisexual), and it is here that camp cinema and horror intersects. Pretorius is a masterfully played figure, a Mephistopheles of inhuman creation of human life, tempting away Henry from his wife back to his unnatural creation of life (how this sailed over Breen's head is anyone's guess), complete with homoculii (including a king, bearing a strong resemblance to Lancaster's husband, Charles Laugton as Henry VIII). Pretorius is a wonderfully played character, and his plan is simple-make a mate for the Monster, with the Dr providing the brain, and Henry the body.

So far, the film has essentially acted as a remake of itself, sticking close to the beats of the original with the notable addition of Pretorius, the externalised, nefarious and queer-coded attempt to play God divorced from Henry as a character. This is all about to change with what Whale does with the figure of the monster. For, if the original film focuses around what happens when a man plays God, then Bride focuses upon a monster trying to be a man; we see the monster battle with his humanity, such that it exist, in detail in three encounters. Karloff for his part, is still absolutely remarkable as a cinematic presence, despite his misgivings in the monster talking. Part of the creature's increasedly human appearance is down to exactly that- because Karloff had to speak on screen, this procluded the sunken-cheeked appearance of the creature in 1931, due to Karloff's denture, and here, Jack Pierce, responsibl for Karloff and Lancaster's makeup, builds this into the character's design and makeup. Scarred and with burnt-short hair at the beginning, we visibly see the Monster recover in front of us.

Karloff, though, goes further; the monster's demeanour may start the film the same, throwing one parent of the unfortunte child he drowned to their deaths and strangles the other, bursting forth to terrorise a third, but his very next action is a complete reversal of the previous film, saving a young shepherdess, even as she screams at him, and hunters soon arrive to shoot at the Monster. If Karloff plays the Monster of the previous film as a newborn, a colossally powerful, and fatally strong child who does not understand the impact of his own actions, then, to borrow some of Whale's own comments about the monster, he reappears in Bride as a figure with "the mental age of a ten-year-old boy and the emotional age of a lad of fifteen". There is an innate curiosity, even if the more violent impulses of the Monster are hacked away by the Hays code, to them, and even his subsequent capture by the mob of villagers only leads to his escape, the Christlike innocent carried cruxiform (another headscratcher as to how Breen missed this) escaping once left alone, breaking his chains and smashing through a wall to disappear into the countryside.

It is here that the Monster comes across the Hermit-blind, he cannot see the appearance of the new arrival and thus, immediately comes to his aid-played by veteran actor O. P. Heggie, and given a remarkable gentleness and concern towards his fellow man-it is also here that the religious overtones become most apparent-the hermit is introduced via the Ave Maria on his violin, his appearance and behaviour is practically saintly, and his dedication to teaching the creature how to speak is a remarkable sequence, Karloff throwing his all into the performance, the words from his mouth seeming like it takes the creature, even through Karloff's heavy makeup, great effort. The fact that these words, of "friend" and "love"  This kindness is not to last, though, as hunters soon appear, recognise the monster and soon attack him, burning down the hapless hermit's house and chasing the monster away-it is a moment of tragedy, the first person who showed him love essentially punished for it.

Against this love, the world shows its cruelty; the monster quickly comes across the figure of Pretorius and his lackies looking for body parts, and from here, he becomes manipulated by the Doctor into supporting him to producing a mate, arriving to threaten Henry and Elizabeth, and, behind Henry's back, proceeds to kidnap Elizabeth on the Doctor's orders. Here, Pretorius proceeds to return Henry back to his laboratory, and, despite himself, begins to allow himself to become swept up in his work once more, completing work on the body of the female monster, and, once more, the inanimate figure is raised into the sky in a thunderstorm, in an even-more impressive sequence than the first film, complete with rolling thunder and crashing lightning across the sky, that ends with the figure, twitching to life returning to earth, as the duo of Pretorius and Henry hurry to unwrap her

What emerges is Elsa Lancaster's Bride; whilst she is on screen for barely five minutes, she is arguably the star of the film, a hissing, behived figure with shock-marks running up that colossal hairdo that required a wire frame. It would have been easy to make her a reflection of Karloff's monster, but in fact, she is the antithesis, instantly aware of her surroundings, and compared to the hostility the monster had to his creators and would-be captors, seems placid and gentle-once again, though, the shadow of the Hays Code falls across the film-whilst there is a degree of the femme fatale, the Bride herself is largely without power, only hissing at her would-be mate. In fact, if anything, this only adds to the homoeroticism of the film-the Monster, having come into words, and into a quasi-adolescence, is quickly reviled by the Bride, to the monster's sadness, as he roars "She hate me! Like others"..

It is the moment that the film pivots on-taught love, the Monster has found only hate, but whilst the hate of the original film is external mobs with fire and pitchforks, this is altogether more personal and more painful-the only other creature, and moreover a creature purposebuilt to be his equal, like him, has utterly rejected him. At the very moment that he searches for the love of the opposite sex, and thus, towards Pretorius's unnatural creation of life. But the monster has had enough, and the destructive violence he metes out returns with fury, and with it, the destructivity and hatred of spurned youth.

We see the monster's anger; but again, the violence is muted, his turning on its creators, a moment of self, rather than external-destruction. Realising he cannot be happy, his next step is proceeding to destroy the tower in which he, and the bride were created, allowing only the "innocents" of Elizabeth and Henry to escape, telling his former creator and captive to "go now", whilst telling both the figure of Pretorius and the Bride that, as the tower collapses, they "belong dead.". It's a shocking end, even more so when you compare it to the original, this macabre end perfectly juxtaposing the end of the first film, and bringing not just the Frankenstein series, not just Whale's career as a horror director, not just the Laemmle era at Universal, but an entire era of horror cinema to an end. No film feels as fitting an end as Bride of Frankenstein

All things have an ending. Colin Clive would die in 1937 at just 37 of TB; by the time of Bride, he he was essentially a functioning alcoholic, often found sleeping on set. Whale did not attend his funeral. John L Balderston would continue to work on Universal films after the Monster era, as well as uncredited script work on Gone with the Wind, and would eventually settle in court for unpaid earnings dating back to 1931 in 1953, just a year before his death. The Laemmles were, by the end of 1935, essentially bankrupt, and whilst Showboat, Whale's other great masterpiece, was a critical and financial success, it was not enough to save their control of the studio, with foreclosure forcing both to leave the company Laemmle Snr had formed in 1912, 24 years previously. Neither ever worked in cinema again.

Karl Freund would continue to work in cinema until the early 50s, largely in cinematrography, before retiring-his innovations in camera technology continue to cast a long shadow over cinema today, and, through his work on I Love Lucy, the world of the sitcom. Bela Lugosi would live until 1956; unlike Karloff, his career dwindled to almost nothing, one of his final roles coming in the (later beloved) Ed Wood film, Plan 9 from Outer Space-appropriately, he was buried in the full costume of the role he'd pioneered 25 years previously, with one of his capes pride of place in the Academy Museum of Motion Pictures. Claude Rains would become perhaps one of the best actors of the first half of the 20th Century, a four time Oscar nominee, and from his beginnings on the British Stage, would play everything from the scheming Prince John to the crooked Senator Joseph Paine, to the heroic Louis Renault and the Phantom of the Opera, thus paving the way for other English stage actors to reach Hollywood.

Boris Karloff remains, nearly 60 years after his death, perhaps the most famous horror actor of all time, but his career remained, compared to Lugosi, varied and active, taking on roles as far apart as stage roles as Captain Hook and a homicidal gangster in Arsenic and Old Lace, and on screen as mad scientists, murderous barons (against a young Jack Nicholson), and the villain in the third of four films by the great lost genius of Michael Reeve. Oh, and the Grinch, for which he won a Grammy-not bad for, as he'd always gone by, William Henry Pratt. His unmistakable visage glowers down from almost everything at this time of year, the heavy lidded eyes, the scarred forehead, and the bolt through the neck. Of the ten most expensive film posters ever sold at auction (two of which are owned by Metallica's own horror nut, Kirk Hammett), Karloff is front and centre on six of them. To many, to us, he is horror. But that forgets the man who put him there in front of the camera.

Whale would never direct another horor movie-a combination of Nazi Germany and poor box office would doom his film, The Road Back (1937) a sequel to All Quiet on the Western Front, and his career with it. Despite the spectacular success of Showboat, a year before, Whale would work out the rest of his Universal contract making mediocre B-Movies, then would retire from filmmaking in 1941. Wracked with depression, the aftermath of a series of strokes, and in constant pain, Whale would commit suicide in 1957. Today, he is regarded as one of the finest filmmakers of the 1930s, an important stylistic bridge between realism and expressionism in cinema, between the reality of 18th Century Europe, or 1930s Egypt or Britain, and the monsters Karloff and Rains portrayed.

Today, a statue of a heap of film reels, bearing the titles of the three most famous films Whale made, and atop it all, spooled into the Midlands sky, the monster grimaces down. The monster lives. The films of James Whale live, the beating heart of horror cinema still thumping away deep in its chest, pumping the blood and gore and gothicism and drama that have enthralled, terrified and astonished us for decades. The shock that Whale gave cinema in 1931 still hammers on, deep in the monster. Long may that heart beat.

Rating: Must See: Personal Recommendation.

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