Here I am, sitting, and who is it that resides opposite me? Someone tall, ghost-like, with a presence so unearthly and unheard of. An odd stench lingers between us as this being inhales and exhales. I glance at his dishevelled cloak and can only think: when was the last time you washed the damn thing?
But I cannot judge. Who am I to say such things when I have read of this being’s trials and tribulations? You may have read his tale too, maybe you sympathise, or maybe you relish in his misery. Either way, this is how I perceive him. Read or disregard; I don’t care.
With that thought of not caring for others, the cloak on his daggered back shakes with dust and cracks to the ear. He looked up and grunted, and there it was. I was looking into the eyes of the Creature.
THERE ARE SPOILERS AHEAD!
You cannot fool me
I’ll be honest with you all: I didn’t know much about Frankenstein. I followed the common misconception that Frankenstein was the monster, and Victor… well, I didn’t really know who Victor was. I just assumed he was the man the monster wanted to be with (sorry, I’m a romantic at heart; I just want everyone to kiss. Sue me).
Even so, I wanted to read it because Guillermo del Toro’s Frankenstein is coming out, and I needed some semblance of background before I set my eyes on Oscar Isaac, Mia Goth, and of course, Jacob Elordi. Plus, would I be lying if I said I wasn’t doing it for the prestige shit that comes with reading a classic? And if you say otherwise, you’re a liar and a cheat, and I hope both sides of your pillow are warm tonight. (Yes, I’m really that cruel.)
Before I dive into my thoughts, here’s a quick synopsis of the book:
Victor Frankenstein, a young scientist driven by ambition, discovers the secret of creating life. Using parts from corpses, he assembles and animates a living being. Horrified by the creature’s monstrous appearance, Victor abandons it. The creature, lonely and rejected by society, becomes bitter and vengeful. It seeks companionship and demands that Victor create a female mate, but Victor destroys his second creation before finishing it.
In retaliation, the creature kills those Victor loves, including his bride, Elizabeth. Consumed by guilt and revenge, Victor pursues the creature to the Arctic, where he dies from exhaustion. The creature, remorseful for his actions, vows to end his own life.
Deadbeat Dad allegations
Victor has already set a poor precedent for us with his actions. Let’s get this straight: you’re a man who’s the eldest in your household, you’re in love with your cousin (I have so many issues with this), and you want to embark on a great enterprise. I’m not disregarding ambition who doesn’t love a man with a goal. But instead of going into stocks, trade, or even becoming a lowly cobbler, Victor decides to create life itself. Everyone needs a hobby, I guess.
With this line of thinking, you’d assume Victor would be ready for responsibility. Because creating life sounds suspiciously similar to something we call parenthood, doesn’t it? So, how are we doing this, Victor? Are we having a baby shower? Is there a registry? I’m all ears.
Instead, Victor chooses the shortcut, skips the nine-month belly stretch and grabs some corpses. Nothing says “parenthood” quite like death, am I right?
When the Creature comes to life, Victor doesn’t cry out the cliché “He’s alive!” as in the movies. Instead, there’s this instant horror, sheer terror as he gazes upon what he’s made.
Victor, you are cruel. You are foul. You have not an ounce of admiration for your work, your child. No, you only see disgust and decay. What does that say about you? Scratch that, what does it say about the whole book? Because we’re uncovering a theme here, aren’t we?
Victor, the father of the creature, had only one thought in mind: to create life. It consumed him completely. This obsession can be compared to people who yearn for children, who try again and again, through every possible means, to make it happen. The idea of the child is intoxicating, but they never think about what comes after. They imagine perfection, not complications.
And Victor, raised in privilege, with a loving family and a fiancée who literally fell into his lap, never once considers the weight of creation. You’d think he’d pour all that affection into his Creature. If not love, at least curiosity. At least that.
But no. He makes him, he vomits in horror and then deserts him for two years.
‘You, Creature, do you need therapy?’
How would you react? You’ve got three options, my fellow reader:
- Cry and sob and punish yourself in all your ugliness.
- Make it your entire personality, bring it up in every conversation, develop a mild narcissism, and milk that trauma.
- Spend a year or so observing a family you grow to love and cherish, planning how to introduce yourself, only to be rejected once again. You try to show kindness, and the father even welcomes you (he’s blind, of course, and cannot see your unbrushed rotten teeth, thanks, Victor). But when his children return, they give you the same horrified look your maker did. Cast out again, you turn hateful and vengeful, plotting to destroy Victor and everyone he loves; to make him feel the ugliness he forced upon you.
I don’t know about you, but I think I like the third option. Is that crazy?
How shallow is your grave, Victor?
Regardless, the book was good. I enjoyed Mary Shelley’s lush descriptions of landscapes and the hyperbolic passion of her characters, even though, deep down, I know Walton wanted to reach out and caress Victor’s cheek every time they were within breathing distance.
Or maybe Shelley just couldn’t quite write the male perspective, because no sailor would let Victor drone on for that long. Realistically, a captain would’ve found him insufferable.
All in all, I do wonder what Victor’s tombstone would say:
Victor Frankenstein
Deadbeat Father
Incestuous Cretin
Lover of Blame
So give it a go before Guillermo del Toro’s Frankenstein comes out, so we can really discuss. Thank you, and see you later.
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