Frankenstein, or Frankenstein is Totally the Scientist Guy

Mary Shelley's Frankenstein (1818) is at once many things. Widely considered the first Science Fiction novel, Frankenstein is also a Romantic discourse between from Shelley to her contemporaries as well as the first example of Kelly Hurley's abhuman (that is, the creature which is both human and nonhuman concurrently; the liminal figure of the wolfman, the vampire, and, arguably, Frankenstein's monster (192)) we encounter in the context of this course. Finally, the novel is inherently problematic given its appropriation into popular culture--most spectacularly through film.

As a science-y novel, the classification of Frankenstein as Gothicism is somewhat contentious. As Kelly Hurley remarks, science fiction can be, and frequently is, recognized as separate from supernatural occurrences (191). Nevertheless, like Radcliffe before her, Shelley's work fall directly into the previously defined weird--the hints that Shelley drops about the nature of Frankenstein's creation of Adam, our monster, clearly mark an impossibility. Even given our modern medical understanding, the return of life to dead tissue is an inherently rare or miraculous act--at the time of writing, even more so. Furthermore, the other aspects of the Gothic that Hurley uses to define it, as well as my own definition, include gloomy and dangerous settings, taboo, transformative, and transgressive themes, hyperbolic and suspenseful atmosphere (191). All of which, it happens, are contained in Frankenstein.

The often-overlooked element of Romanticism in the novel, meanwhile, differentiate this novel and others from that of the Victorian. Likewise, the until-recently-overlooked Shelley make her very distinctive presence known in the novel. Her quotations of both Wordsworth and Coleridge meant that this novel acts as a discourse between her and her Romantic contemporaries. It cannot be overstated that Shelley was very much a player in the intellectual games of her time. The mark of the French Revolution, with its rejection of Christianity and its concern with the individual experience, permeate the novel. This is one of the least religious novels we've read thus far, yet, with Adam's reading of Paradise Lost, this book takes up the same kind of questioning that we found in Lewis--most obviously, what are the responsibilities that a creator owes its creation? Furthermore, the fact that we hear from the abhuman figure directly cannot be accidental, given the importance of democracy to the Romantic discourse as well as the failure of the French Revolution. This novel is one of the very few times that we hear the viewpoint of the abhuman--no one, for example, knows what Dracula is thinking. The moments where Shelley enters into the literary and intellectual discourse of her contemporaries points toward her novel's staying power.

The treatment of Frankenstein in film is, arguably, one of the most controversial aspects of the novel. Gone, on film, is the personal explanation from Adam's own mouth. In its place, the creation scene involving lightning that has so dominated popular culture. The 1931 version of the film with Boris Karloff is especially interesting in this regard. Not only is Shelley credited under her husband's name, Frankenstein and his confidant switch names, Elizabeth is no longer Frankenstein's adopted sister, and a school professor in the vein of Van Helsing is added. Even more fascinating is the Mel Brooks parody Young Frankenstein, if only because Frankenstein is twenty in the book. How much younger need he be? Arguably, the vast difference between these two versions mark a similar occurrence in the previous century on the stage. I would argue that the tendency toward parody returns somewhat to that ever-present theme of self-parody, brought on, no doubt, by the highly stylized elements of Gothicism. As one final comment, I find it interesting that, with the method of framing that Shelley uses, there is no neutral narrator voice--each of the narrators has an agenda. This is one of the main reason, I think, that the novel is so unfilmable as written.

Finally, the elements that Frankenstein contributes to Gothicism include, obviously, the mad scientist; the human-created monster; and, most likely by accident, the sequel-hook. All of these elements make their way into B-movies, if nowhere else. As one of the strands that binds Gothicism to the present, Frankenstein is a big one, only second to the popularizing of the vampire.

Newt week, I'll be discussing Jane Austen's Northanger Abbey (1818), written well before this novel, but published as a contemporary.

Hurley, Kelly. "British Gothic fiction, 1855-1930". The Cambridge Companion to Gothic Fiction. Ed. Jerrold Hogle. Cambridge UP. Cambridge, 2002

The Monk: A Romance, or Satan?!

So to start off this week's discussion of Matthew Gregory "Monk" Lewis's The Monk: A Romance (1796), we have an interesting fact: this novel was written while Lewis was still 19, in less than three months. Interesting, yes? Especially when you consider that, unlike the two previous novels of this course, The Monk has some very interesting (and literary) things to say. First, there's the very beginning of the novel; rather than haphazardly leaping into a death (I'm looking at you, Walpole!) the novel gives time to establish its characters before being horrible to them. Conversely, unlike Radcliffe's doorstopper, Lewis begins the novel right in the middle of the action--no Victorian wasting disease in sight.


Furthermore, we return to the authorial justification that we saw at the beginning of Otranto; this time, in the mid-book. Lewis whines about the difficulty implicit in writing a book--the way that each reader "judges" the quality of the work, etc--through Alphonso explaining the "thousand mortifications" that an author faces. This short passage of the novel is interesting in light of the self-parodying aspect of the Gothic novel.


I also found the treatment of the supernatural in this novel to be very interesting. Even given that the main (tragic?) hero is a priest (and minor characters act as clergy) the hugely Catholic nature of the novel is staggering. The Spanish setting is not incidental to this aspect of the novel, but the Bleeding Nun and Wandering Jew episode are extremely unexpected, given the previous two novels. Of course, they only act as a lead in to the arrival of Lucifer and the use of witchcraft later. They serve to strengthen the Suspension of Disbelief that is so necessary for a Gothic work (perhaps more so than other works?) to function--if ghosts, then Wandering Jews, if Wandering Jews, then Lucifer. What's very interesting to me is that there is no definite "good" supernatural to balance out the bad. If the Great Mogul is the Wandering Jew (and as the narrator doesn't comment to the affirmative, we merely speculate) then Jesus would logically have existed, but where is he? Where is the angel to lead away from temptation? The lack of the God side of the morality binary is certainly a play with the "morality tale" that Lewis is referencing--an interesting one, given the severity of the Catholicism.


The treatment of women, meanwhile, is ambiguous at best. Each female character acts more as a device--Antonia, our persecuted "heroine"? She's one-note in her innocence, which eventually kills her. Matilda? transvestic witch. Interesting on paper, but her all consuming love of Ambrosio is essentially her entire characterization. Oh, and she's Lucifer's emissary. A seductive Eve figure. Leonella? Flighty, vain gossip. Interestingly, the character Agnes, for me, read as more of a heroine figure, given that the main narrative is a morality tragedy. However, she's a pregnant nun who wants to marry Alphonso. In fact, the best female characters seem to be Elvira and Marguerite--but only for the way they are treated by men. I can believe a 19 year old boy wrote this novel.


The way that The Monk influences its literary children--its contribution to the Gothic tropes--are fairly numerous. The evil priest character is nearly ubiquitous after this point. The lack of divinity is also apparent--a Gothic universe is one of an uncaring (or at least un-intervening) God. Ambrosio's contribution to the Byronic Hero is almost immeasurable, though I would more likely characterize him as Villain Protagonist. Also: a Gothic novel with some actual literary merit? I would say so. The questioning aspect of the novel--is there a god?--definitely allows for a more nuanced interpretation of the work.


So, next week, I'll be reviewing Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley's Frankenstein (1823). Published in France! And I'll also look at the Hammer Horror version of Frankenstein and how it relates to the actual novel.