false 2 21 false false Tue Feb 26 03:12:18 -0800 2008 Tue Feb 26 03:25:25 -0800 2008
The other thing I liked was that standard ploy of gothic novels – the multiple Chinese whisper narration. In this the story is all written in a series of letters and then continuous prose to the sister of a sea captain who hears the story on a journey to the North Pole from Frankenstein himself, even though much of the story is also told to Frankenstein by his monster. I do like stories like this -that are like Russian Dolls – where it is hard to tell who is telling the story and just how reliable they could be as a narrator. I'm not sure I would trust anything an adventurer sea captain told me about anything - and in the end he is the only source.

Unfortunately, that is about all that I did like. I would have said I know this story well before I read the book. There have been endless films made of this story – so there are elements to the story that are etched into our collective memories. It comes then as a bit of a shock that many (most) of these elements are not in the story at all. No bolts in the neck, no Igor, no organ playing – isn’t it funny how all of these are so strongly associated with the monster and the story, when none of them are in the story at all? I guess that is yet another example of the power of images.

The other difference is that in films the monster is a slow moving automaton, whereas in the book he is much swifter, stronger and agile than people. Frankenstein may not have made a very good looking monster, but in every other respect he did a much better job than God did. Frankenstein is a very fast learner - he learns to speak in less than a year. And given the poverty of instruction Chomsky would really be proud!

Coincidences rarely work in fiction – and while they bring delight when they happen in life, in fiction they tend to stop us in our wilful suspension of disbelief. As Frank Smith points out somewhere – we don’t find it hard to suspend disbelief, it is something we quite like to do. The problem is that this story seems to go out of its way to make us do tutting noises at the improbabilities and constantly strained plotting twists.

My problem was that many of these weren’t really necessary to the story itself. You know, hint - if telling me something silly isn't going to improve the story, don't tell me something silly.

I thought there were some interesting comments about the obligations Gods have to their creations. In this case the ‘god’ is the scientist. He spends most of his time swooning – it seemed the slightest problem has him rushing to his bed for months on end. A friend dies and he is almost at death's door himself. About the only things he never did was tear at either his hair or his clothes – but that is hardly high praise. I guess I’m supposed to say that in these days of genetic engineering and such this is a tale more cautionary now than when it was originally written – but I won’t say that because it is too boring and too obvious.

If it is horror you want, Stephen King is much more frightening, never tells you how scared you are supposed to feel at any given moment in the story and is basically a better writer. But this is a seminal horror story, so I guess for that reason alone…


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