Movies of War

Bride of Frankenstein isn’t a love story. Given the title’s nuptial tone, one could be forgiven for going into James Whale’s 1935 film with the expectation of an autumn courtship, perhaps leading to a Samhain wedding. While Boris Karloff’s Monster and Elsa Lanchester’s Bride have transcended the silver screen to become a cinematic power couple, in reality, they spend just a few awkward moments together before their connection literally brings down the house. Bride of Frankenstein also isn’t a story that follows a monstrous, yet empowered woman. In the nine decades since the film’s release, we’ve seen the term “Bride of … ” come to connote a female variant of a horrifying creature regardless of her villainy. But Whale’s sequel to Frankenstein centers women as concepts rather than characters. Though they sit on a spectrum of sympathy, the men of this iconic film represent a dehumanizing system built to capitalize on female pain. Mary Shelley’s original novel, Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus, feels heavily inspired by the horrors women survive every day. Before publishing the 1818 novel, Shelley had lost two children in infancy, along with her own mother, who died eleven days after her birth. Considering its themes of painful creation, Frankenstein could be considered soft pregnancy horror in its harrowing exploration of human reproduction. Picking up this undercurrent, Whale leans into feminism by introducing Shelley (Lanchester) herself in the opening scene, a recreation of 1916’s “haunted summer” when the author conceived her harrowing tale. Bride of Frankenstein opens on a dark and stormy night in which Lord Byron (Gavin Gordon) and Percy Bysshe Shelley (Douglas Walton) marvel at her unnerving story and the likelihood of its publication. Addressing the juxtaposition of a delicate woman spawning a story of abject terror, Mary asks, “An audience needs something stronger than a pretty little love story. So, why shouldn’t I write of monsters?” Though Karloff’s lurching character is most notable, Whale’s story is filled with monstrous men. Henry Frankenstein (Colin Clive) has managed to survive the previous film’s climactic battle and learned a valuable lesson about playing god. But while his Monster roams the countryside, another sinister scientist appears. Dr. Pretorius (Ernest Thesiger) interrupts Henry’s recovery to insist that he create a female companion. Why Bride of Frankenstein Isn’t a Love Story In a twist on Shelley’s original story, it’s not the Monster who makes this demand, but a variation of Henry himself. Whale’s inversion allows us to empathize with both Henry and his lonely Monster while interrogating their experiment. Overtly villainous, Pretorius has no justifiable reason to create a female creature beyond self-interest and curiosity. When Henry initially refuses, Pretorius turns to the Monster for influence. Offering long-awaited compassion, the doctor plays into the Monster’s vulnerability and enlists him as a co-conspirator. He will eventually hold Henry’s fiancée, Elizabeth (Valerie Hobson), hostage to galvanize the scientist into compliance, threatening another man’s mate to secure his own. While Pretorius is clearly manipulating a vulnerable person with limited intellectual capacity, the Monster becomes his willing accomplice and transforms into the violent threat his appearance suggests. In both Whale’s film and Shelley’s story, the decision to create a female companion seems to hinge solely on the concept of reproduction. A queer reading positions Pretorius as a gay man seeking to father a child with Henry as his partner, though more cynical views suggest an egomaniacal desire to harness power. In the laboratory, Pretorius will toast, “To a new world of gods and monsters!” revealing his plan to spawn an inferior race of humanoid descendants that he will rule over as a god. Shelley’s Victor Frankenstein abandons the woman in mid-construction, theorizing a similar race of creatures destined to overtake humanity. (One wonders if he began stitching together the female reproductive system and became frightened by its awesome power.) But these admittedly valid concerns reduce the Bride to her womb, ignoring one important question: Does the Monster deserve a mate? The entirety of Whale’s first film involves Karloff’s Monster seeking acceptance. Rejected by his creator, the lonely new soul roams through the woods, scaring away anyone who crosses his path. The only kindness the Monster receives is from a little girl who dies by his hands because no one has bothered to inform him about the fragility of human life. The film climaxes with a violent mob demanding death to the Monster and a showdown with Dr. Frankenstein in which he rages at the folly of his existence. So why then would the Monster want to visit this pain on anyone else? Considering all he’s suffered at the hands of a cruel world and his callous creator, perhaps the Monster deserves our sympathy. But should that come at the expense of an innocent stranger his plan would doom to the same ugly fate? The idea of a subservient bride follows a long-held patriarchal pattern. Conditioned to view male needs as paramount, women are invariably called on to provide a buffer between men and the friction of the world. Rather than seek emotional solace or a way to resolve his loneliness, the Monster asks for a woman to suffer alongside him; a partner to absorb his pain. And Henry makes no effort to connect with his symbolic child, outsourcing the companionship he could provide. Though reluctant to continue the experiment, he nonetheless decides to resurrect another corpse and then wash his hands of the whole affair. Beauty, Monstrosity, and Impossible Standards Once finished, the Bride’s construction also highlights uneven gender norms. Rather than scavenge for body parts, Pretorius delivers the corpse of a 19-year-old woman, murdered specifically for the project. The resulting female creature is much different from Karloff’s iconic appearance, with an elongated skull and protruding bolts that immediately signal monstrosity. By comparison, the Bride is beautiful. Only a jagged scar beneath her right jawline hints at her ominous origins. With slashed eyebrows and delicate skin, she could easily pass for human, bypassing the worst of society’s judgment. Though stunning, particularly in black and white, this dichotomy reflects the impossible beauty standards plaguing women to this day. While men are allowed to age gracefully, women must jump through endless hoops to maintain their youthful appeal. Even a reanimated corpse is still expected to be beautiful. With her billowing, white hospital gown, high shoulders, and bandage-wrapped sleeves, the Bride’s style presents a horrific twist on wedding attire that subtly hints at villainy. Her pale skin and dark makeup evoke the dangerous vamp persona perfected by silent film star Theda Bara, implying menace to men without saying a word. Her dark hair is pulled back from her face in a gravity-defying updo while jagged streaks of pure white emerge from either temple. Often illustrated to resemble bolts of lightning, these streaks feel as if they were caused by electrodes attached to the sides of her head. With her feathered, white robe, neutral makeup, and soft, flowing hair, Elizabeth is the ingénue to the Bride’s vamp, a proper woman willing to dote on her man even when his actions put her in mortal danger. Though we learn very little about either bride, their contrasting looks serve as a subtle warning to female audiences. Elizabeth is a respectable woman, destined to become a supportive wife, while the Bride is a woman to be feared. The Bride’s Rejection Perhaps befitting her menacing look, the Bride does not behave as expected. After emerging from the table on which she was born, the unsteady woman takes a few darting looks around before glimpsing the Monster to whom she’s been promised. Though he greets her with kind hopefulness, the Bride responds with animalistic hisses, seemingly horrified by his ghoulish appearance. Though, to be fair, she is literally moments old and encountering the world for the first time. Guided to sit next to her betrothed, the Monster takes a moment to stroke her hand, hoping to establish gentle contact. But again, she rebuffs his forward approach. Devastated at yet another rejection, the Monster wails, “She hate me, like others.” While understandable and even pitiable, this outsized reaction reflects the dehumanizing misogyny under which the Bride was created. Every man in the lab has assumed she will accept the Monster as her mate, never once thinking to ask for consent. This patriarchal worldview stems from the biblical story of Adam and Eve, Earth’s first woman constructed from the rib of a man. Presented as a variant of true humanity, the Bride is expected to love the Monster simply because he desires her. To his credit, the Monster seems to understand. Her hisses break through his hopeful delusion, and he admits the hellish nature of his request. Insisting, “we belong dead,” he allows Henry and Elizabeth to leave, then pulls a lever to destroy the castle while everyone else is trapped inside. Future texts will give this reclamation to the Bride in welcome acts of empowerment, but here, the Monster’s conclusive act helps to redeem his character. He now understands the underlying cruelty in creating a partner to share his pain. It’s refreshing to see a man take responsibility for his damaging act of misogyny, and Whale allows this course correction, reminding us that a man’s simple desire does not obligate a woman to be his bride. Though it significantly deviates from Shelley’s original text, Whale’s masterpiece stands the test of time. Nine decades after its initial release, it continues to hold a mirror up to the ways we abuse and objectify women. Whether for scientific advancement, an ego boost, or a simple need for companionship, each of the story’s men uses a woman to ease their pain. Pretorius and Frankenstein are cautionary tales warning against systemic dehumanization, while the Monster becomes an early example of self-reflection and allyship. Though her single scene offers little agency, Lanchester’s Bride has transcended her origin story to become a symbol of non-traditional beauty and a vessel of feminist empowerment. 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