Don't Make a Scene: Frankenstein (1931)

The Story: When Pauline Kael wrote of a review of Zeffirelli's version of Romeo and Juliet, she made a big deal of quoting a lyric from "The Bandwagon" to denote its style: "She came to me in stages." 

 

Well, Frankenstein—or I should say "Frankenstein's Monster"—comes to you in parts (some assembly required). 

Director James Whale, who wanted and took over the project from Robert Florey—whose concept of "The Monster" was as an unthinking killing brute and was using a John Dalderston adaptation of a play for the film's basis—as the second film in his five-year contract with Universal.

 

As a child, when I first saw this sequence, it thrilled me. Now, as an adult, it thrills me even more because I understand that it was—and is—filled with dexterous flourishes of direction to ramp up the suspense and pay it off for the audience. Despite what most people say about magic, sometimes, you can appreciate the talent more if you know how the trick is done.

Case in point: The monster's entrance. There has been a movie's worth of build-up, what with the concept, the digging up of dead bodies, the experiment itself, the hiding of the form under the sheet. And then, there are the foot-prints right before this scene, as Doctors Frankenstein and Waldmon talk about the resuscitation of dead tissue to create new life. They come closer, and then the paradox look to the door.

Whale cuts to the door, which slowly opens with the tried and true creak to set the spine on edge. 

Except the creature is facing away from us in shadow.

Cut closer. We can see the bolts coming out of its neck and it turns...very slowly...first revealing a scar under its jaw—and if we can tear our eyes away from that—that its head is alarmingly flat on top.

 

As we see more of its face, another layer is peeled off, as the creature comes into the light, and we can see the dead, unseeing eyes as they LOOK RIGHT AT US!!! 

 

And then, when we get a full view of its face, Whale moves in to a very tight close-up. 

 

And then, just a split second before we can get linger on even more detail, he moves to an even closer shot, putting us seemingly nose-to-nose with the creature. 

 

Most film-makers and cinematographers will tell you this is a bad move, and spoils a smooth transition between two separate images, and that to do so can be a jarring effect that will interfere with an audience's absorption into the scene.But, that's exactly the effect Whale wanted: he wanted to shock us with the transition, draw us closer to a repellent image and make us feel it with an edit that comes too soon and too close, adding to our discomfort.

It's a superb example of Whale's showmanship, theatricality, understanding of the mechanics of both film and fear, and a wicked sense of gleeful sadism on what could be achieved with an audience. Bravo.

 

The Set-Up: Most fiancee's spend their engagement staying out of the way of the wedding arrangements. Not Henry Frankenstein (Colin Clive). At his Alpen laboratory, he has been obsessively working trying to re-animate dead tissue and has constructed an entire human body in an attempt to do so. With the rapt attention of his former teacher, Waldron (), Henry explains that his research has been a success. Would he like to see it.

 

Well, wait a few minutes. Someone's in the hall....

 

Action! 

E-3  MEDIUM SHOT

THE CAMERA, CHANGING ITS ANGLE, now takes in the door, keeping Waldman and Frankenstein in the foreground.

Both have now turned to the door, which slowly opens, revealing the Monster in the frame.

The Monster is a strangely hideous, grotesque, inhuman figure -- its figure supplying the only semblance of humanity.

It stands there in the doorway, staring out of unseeing eyes at the two men. He does not move....a slight, twitching about the mouth alone denotes life. 

Dressed in an old suit of Frankenstein, which is far too small for him, making the Monster look shrunken -- or in a shape-less, colorless sack-like garb, perhaps -- it looks like a dead thing.

Its flesh is gray, blotchy, the lips almost black.

The top of its head has a curious flat ridge like the lid of a box.

The hair is fairly short and quite obviously combed over the ridge to hide the defect of the joining where the brain was put in.

It is apparent that the Monster is becoming used to the dim light. 

Doctor Waldman is visibly alarmed but stands his ground.

Frankenstein goes toward the thing; after a few steps, however, he stops, fascinated by the creature, hardly knowing what to expect.

He motions to the Monster with his hand and says: 

FRANKENSTEIN: Come in! Come in! 

The Monster slightly sways, and we think it is going to fall but it starts MOVING toward Frankenstein.

All the joints are quite stiff, yet it has perfect balance.

It does not walk like a Robot, it glides forward with a slightly swaying, rythmic movement.

E-4  CLOSER SHOT

The CAMERA TRUCKS BEFORE Frankenstein as he, backing slowly, leads the Monster to a chair.

Still facing the creature, Frankenstein makes half-hypnotic, half-persuasive gestures with his hands.

FRANKENSTEIN: Sit down!

The monster fails to understand. Frankenstein though quivering with excitement painstakingly goes through the required movements; now he reports:

FRANKENSTEIN: Sit down! DOWN!

With slow, jerky tentative movements the Monster assumes a sitting posture.

 

Frankenstein

 

Words by Garrett Fort and Francis Edward Faragoh (Draft dated August 12, 1931)

 

Pictures by Arthur Edeson and James Whale

 

Frankenstein is available on DVD and Blu-Ray from Universal Home Video.

The Man in the Iron Mask (1939)

The Man in the Iron Mask (James Whale, 1939) "The Man in the Iron Mask" is a genuine part of French history, and the identity of the man (who probably wore a mask of black velvet cloth, rather than iron—blame Voltaire) is still one of speculation.

But, most people know "The Man in the Iron Mask" from his fictionalized appearance in Alexandre Dumas' last volume of his "D'Artagnan Romances" series, "The Vicomte de Bragellone: Ten Years Later" where the story is the last section, comprised of Chapters 181 to 269. In it, Dumas opines that the prisoner is Phillipe, the twin brother of King Louis IV. The Musketeer, Aramis, learns of this subterfuge and attempts a coup by replacing "The Sun King" with Phillipe, in league with the Musketeers Porthos, but not D'Artagnan. The coup is overturned in no small part due to D'Artagnan's efforts, but he refuses to turn against his old comrades when Louis orders then arrested and killed.

Versions of the story had been filmed in the silent era, and the film follows the story of Allan Dwan's 1929 Douglas Fairbanks version for this, its first foray in the sound era. In that, Phillipe's existence is not erased—merely expunged—by having him raised in Gascony under the care of d'Artagnan (Warren William, "the King of the Pre-Code"*) on advisement of the King's courtier Colbert (Walter Kingsford), who wishes no confusion about the line of succession, and fearing that Phillipe could be used by forces to unseat the future King. Such information is to be kept under the strictest of confidences, as it could lead to blackmail (as it does when cardinal's messenger Fouquet (Joseph Schildkraut) uses the information to become Minister of Finance under the young King Louis IV (Louis Hayward).

King Louis is a foppish lout, and Fouquet uses his position as Minister to impose a crippling tax on his people, including the ones in Glascony and that causes a bit of commotion when it comes time to pay at the d'Artagnan house, where guests Porthos (Alan Hale), Athos (Bert Roach), and Aramis (Miles Mander) hold off the tax collectors, but are captured when confronted by the King's guard. The advisor Colbert alerts Louis to the startling resemblance to him, and, knowing that an assassination plot is imminent, blackmails Phillipe to impersonate him or his friend-Musketeers will be executed.

For Louis, it's a great plan to avoid being killed, but it has a couple of negative consequences: first, when the attack does come Phillipe is able to thwart it and, rather than have them killed, spares their lives, which wins him favor in the public eye; second, Louis's betrothed, the Princess Maria Theresa (Joan Bennett) of Spain finds the false Louis far more attractive than the real king, who's carrying on an affair with the Mademoiselle de la Valliere (Marion Martin).

After a swashbuckling escape from Louis' clutches, Phillipe is recaptured and Louis decides to hang him, but a decree that no royal blood be spilled (and that Louis couldn't stand to see someone who looks like himself swinging from the gallows) gives him a more sadistic alternative—throwing his brother into the Bastille, his face hidden by an iron mask that can only be unlocked with a key in the king's possession. Phillipe will be forgotten in prison, doubly encased, until his beard grows so long inside the mask that he will be strangled by it.

Whale's work on this plays to his many strengths, displayed in his work in the 1930's, starting in 1931 with his iconic Frankenstein and its sequel, the equally iconic (but lesser known) The Old Dark House, The Invisible Man, and Show Boat. The film is designed to the 9's, with extraordinarily elaborate decors and costumes, and the dungeons of the Bastille are things of nightmare. Plus, his special effects work is fully on display in the elaborate split-screen work, allowing Louis Hayward to play both parts, without any seams or noticeable delays in dialogue. And Whale's florid directing is much in display in Hayward's wild-eyed King Louis and his Finance Minister, Fouquet, while Hayward's Phillipe approaches the hyperbolic ministrations (much as Claude Rains did in The Invisible Man) in his dungeon scenes. When one's expressions can't be seen, emotive body language supplies the desperation. It's a remarkable work, and even though produced in 1939, still is the best version of The Man in the Iron Mask I've seen.

* I'm becoming a real fan of Warren William, who is pretty much forgotten in the annals of cinema, despite the fact that he had the swashbuckling verve of Errol Flynn in this, and his heroes—including the first screen version of "Perry Mason" and a Sam Spade twice-removed in Satan Met a Lady—and his villains could be unapologetically moustache-twirling (as in Employees' Entrance).

The Invisible Man (1933)

Oh. It's October (still). Guess I need to pay attention to Horror Films.

The Invisible Man (James Whale, 1933) There have been so many versions of "The Invisible Man"—in movies and television, including a version released this year just as the COVID-19 virus started emptying theaters directed by Leigh Wannell and starring Elisabeth Moss—but, this one, directed by the ingenious James Whale (he of the classic Frankenstein and The Old Dark House and portrayed in Gods and Monsters) hews very closely to H. G. Wells' original novel (sub-titled "A Grotesque Romance" and both serialized and published in 1897), both in circumstance and (and this is crucial) in tone. I'm reading Wells' story now (and so can you here) and, although there is always a sense of the fantastical with Wells, it is apparent that in this one Wells was having a bit of a jape at the village-life residents among whom he grew up. With the exception of the demented Griffin ("The Invisible One" he's called in the film's credits), the other characters are bumpkins and simple folk, who fall about themselves in states of slapstick buffoonery at the sight and pranks of the one who can't be seen.

It's less a novel of horror or of adventure as it is a sadistic comedy. The Invisible man, Griffin, comes to the village of Iping, having finished his experiments, completed them on himself, and emboldened with his power to be a covert agent of destruction, made his way to the village to try and find the process to reverse the change. Swathed in bandages, bulky stolen clothes, a floppy hat, dark glasses and a prosthetic nose, he's a mummified presence as he makes his way through a snow-storm (the better to see him with when he's invisible later in the film). It's a stark sight as he bursts through the door takes a sitting room with his notebooks and flasks, demanding privacy for his task. To pay his way, he resorts to thievery, shedding his clothes and invading a local vicar's home to steal the funds. He is confronted by the constabulary and town officials, he dis-robes and, in naked invisibility, tweaks and thwarts his would-be captors who are helpless to defend themselves from his attacks. 

This must have seemed like a gaudy feast for Whale, who was fond of combining the horrorific with a giddy, satiric chauvinism towards "the others" of whom, as a closeted gay man, he felt apart from, hid from, but also could feel superior to for hiding in plain sight with his secret. It's certainly a delicious visual opportunity for Whale to portray Griffin's mummified presence as he makes his way through a snow-storm (the better to see him with when he's invisible later in the film) then bursts through the door of an Inn—with the same progressively closer jump-cuts he employed in Frankenstein and The Bride of.... Whale (and his screenwriter R.C. Sherriff hewed close to the book—Wells was still quite alive and visible enough that he had script approval—but inserted a sympathetic mentor with a daughter enamored of the mad-man (had they ever talked?) and turned the novel's colleague, Kemp into a spurned rival for his affections.

Whale ramps up the comedy—there is a lot of slapstick of rabble being tossed about with mocking color comedy from the unseen Griffin. Dis-embodied bicycles run through the street and gets thrown at the chasing mob (one of whom is supposedly Walter Brennan, although you can't recognize him in the film). Whale-favorite Una O'Connor is encouraged to play her "shocked" scenes to a delightfully strident hysteria, and the villagers portrayed as yokels—swear to god, the initial arresting bobby walks into the room and "Python's" "Wot's all this, then?" The giddiness reaches a peak when a room runs down the street pursued by a skipping pair of pants while Griffin sings "Here we go gathering nuts in May..." It's all fun and games until somebody gets hurt, and Whale features a couple on-screen murders—Griffin bashes a policeman's head in with a chair—and a train sabotage ensures that the Invisible Man wins the body-count tally of the Universal monsters.

He's helped immeasurably by the on-screen non-presence of Claude Rains—making his American film debut and he was cast when Whale, in an adjoining room, heard his voice in a failed screen-test for another role. Rains had grown up in a theatrical family, had enjoyed stage roles and was a well-regarded teacher at The Royal Academy of Dramatic Art (Good Lord, he taught Olivier, Gielgud and Laughton!) and it's a tour-de-force of acting without expression, as you don't see Rains' face until the final shot. Where Whale's other actors in the film sometimes act as if they're still in silent films, Rains has the best of both worlds, acting by mime and the sound of his vibrant voice (and he can over-act because he's playing crazy, but without any betraying mugging)!

Whale knew talent and high up in the cast are two actors who would burn brightly and not fade: Henry Travers—who played the angel Clarence in Capra's It's a Wonderful Life and the unsuspecting father in Hitchcock's Shadow of a Doubt—is a bit stifled (that we're used to, anyway) as Griffin's mentor and Gloria Stuart, who appeared in Whale's The Old Dark House, but is most well-known for playing "Old Rose" in James Cameron's Titanic (and, yes, she was "a bit of a dish") plays the ingenue/love interest for audiences who were looking for some kind of normalcy amidst the madness—her and Travers' characters do not appear in Wells' narrative.

In the interest of transparency (*cough*), one should say the special effects of the Universal house-technicians run from some ingenious wire-work and primitive "blue-screen" (actually black velvet) opticals to some dodgy miniature work for that train derailment. And there are some shots that you just look at and wonder "how'd they do that?"—even 87 years on. It makes a little thrill that, even in the era of CGI's Uncanny Valley, makes even un-seeing believing.

Claude Rains makes his only appearance in The Invisible Man.

The Old Dark House (1932)

The Old Dark House (James Whale, 1932) It is a dark and stormy—one might say "dreadful"—night. Trying to negotiate the way to Shrewesbury amidst a blinding rain on a road prone to crippling muddiness and threatening landslides are Philip Waverton (Raymond Massey), his wife Margaret (Gloria Stuart...from Titanic?) and friend Roger Penerel (Melvyn Douglas), slap-dasherly young people without a care in the world, except for what little irritations cross their bourgeois path—like how full is the whiskey flask? On such a night, maps and directional instincts can become stymied. Finding a large, sturdy house (more importantly, the lights are on), they pull up and knock on the large and imposing door. They are allowed entrance by the master of the house, Horace Femm (Ernest Thesiger), self-described as "rather a nervous man" who allows his hulking man-servant, Morgan (Boris Karloff) to give them access from the deluge outside, although he is less welcoming than one might wish.

If he is reluctant, his sister Rebecca (Eva Moore) is even less so. A bit of a religious-hysteric, she is more than a little bitter at her treatment within the family, feeling persecuted, and if her perception of her family is skewed, her reaction to outsiders, and, worse, these particularly un-devout young people is openly hostile. She has one bottom-line: "No BEDS!" She's probably fearing orgies under her roof.                                                          

The guests will have to be comfortable in the drawing room, although Margaret is soaked to the skin and insists on changing clothes, which she is allowed to do in one of the Femm bedrooms under Rebecca's watchful, judgmental eye, who tells a brief history of her treatment within the "sinful and godless" Femm family*, and revealing that the father of the Fenn's, 102 year-old Roderick Femm, is still alive and living in the house. Despite this one consideration, the Femm's are determined to keep the Waverton's and Penerel in the drawing room and discourage them from trying to access any other part of the house for their safety. They are particularly warned about Morgan, whom Horace describes as an "uncivilized brute" and "rather dangerous"—he has a tendency to drink a little and molest a lot. Femm fortunes evidently preclude them from hiring a replacement.

Just as the first guests are getting comfortable being uncomfortable at the Femm's, they are joined by two others: Sir William Porterhouse (Charles Laughton), a genial and bellicose bloke, with his evening companion "Ducane"—a chorine whose real name is Sophie Perkins (Lillian Bond), who are far more free-spirited and liven things up a bit, but create a bit more frisson, adding a little more chaos in the mix bottled up in the barely-contained Femm house. Libations are provided and a dinner served, But on such a night, things can not go smoothly. The electricity goes out in the storm, and when Philip goes to retrieve an oil lamp from upstairs—Horace, it seems, is too scared to go—and he notices a couple of locked rooms, one of which has a voice coming from inside it.

Penerel and the chorus-girl start to get chummy, and the brute Morgan (it seems) has gotten into the liquor and he attacks poor Margaret the first chance she is alone. At this point, lines are drawn in the wood floors and the night becomes one of survival and the discovery of secrets that have been hidden away for years. And although it has all the trappings and tropes of a horror film, under Whale's direction there is a giddy, giggling sense of humor bubbling just under the surface that is campy and knows just how far to push the material as far as commentary and suggestiveness.

Whale is clearly having fun with the project (based on J.B. Priestly's 1927 novel "Benighted"), the second project he made after his success with Frankenstein, and although he turns down the German Expressionism he wrought in that film, the film is richly textured, not only between levels of light and dark in subject and dialogue, but also pictorially, thanks to his Frankenstein cinematographer Arthur Edeson, who would move from Universal to the Warner Brothers and make his mark on such films as The Maltese Falcon and Casablanca. It appears to be a stepping-stone to the extreme arch-tone he took in his subsequent The Bride of Frankenstein.

The Old Dark House also marked the Hollywood debut of actor Charles Laughton, who would quite quickly rise in the ranks from talented character actor to star and eventually director. 

The Old Dark House is one of those wonders of the pre-Code era, where the subject matter could be broadened (as well as the moral implications of characters' actions), leaving audiences with endings with moral ambiguities, and troubling implications, rather than satiate them with happy endings. You could almost look at The Old Dark House as a hybrid of the horror, Romantic Gothic, and even noir genres to create an unsettling thrill-ride that leave one disturbed even after one has exited the theater.

The trouble with those pre-Code films, however, was that once the Hays Code came into play, many films, to ensure further booking into theaters, were censored, or even re-shot to meet the new stringent standards placed on movie entertainment. The ones which could not be "rehabilitated" were confined behind locked doors in the vaults of the studio and, in many cases, forgotten and abandoned.

The Old Dark House was considered a lost film until it was dug up from the Universal racks in 1968 and restored, saved from the depredations that time and its storage on flammable nitrate film would inflict on it. Rather than left to rot, it was exhumed, and another classic Horror film, one of its most curious and perverse entries, was saved from the grave.

*

"They were all godless here. They used to bring their women here - brazen, lolling creatures in silks and satins. They filled the house with laughter and sin, laughter and sin. And if I ever went down among them, my own father and brothers - they would tell me to go away and pray, and I prayed - and left them with their lustful red and white women!"
Director Whale goes to town during this sequence—probably because it's so talky—with distorted mirror and lens effects to disorient the viewer, and to add his own visual commentary on sister Rebecca's rant.