Kvetching About the Klassics:
A Review of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein and A. Merritt's The Face in the Abyss
by Jim Reyome
Shelley, Mary. Frankenstein, or, The Modern Prometheus, the 1818 Text. London: William Pickering, 1993. c. 1818. 266p.
Merritt, A[braham]. The Face in the Abyss. New York: Collier Books, 1992. c. 1923. 343 p.
I was startled when I got the message rather late in the quarter from Our Dear Miss June to drop what I was doing and review something "classic" for the next edition of Necropsy. This was especially annoying in that I'd just finished reading Tim Lebbon's Face and I was really looking forward to reviewing it. I already had a good lead written, and it actually looked as if I'd get my piece in weeks early instead of right at the deadline.
But nooooooooo, I must switch thought processes--midstream mind you, which is rather tough for me--and instead review something "classic". Now fear not, this is not meant to be a rant on the misuse of the word classic ("classic rock" being a pet peeve of mine, to be sure.) I figured anything pre-war would probably do. And I had a couple of books in my faithful must-read rack adjacent to the bed which at least fit that description, those being A. Merritt's The Face in the Abyss (1923) and Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley's Frankenstein (1818). So, why not? I picked them up and plowed right in.
It is only appropriate, I think, that I composed this review on a dark and stormy night, the air heavy and oppressive, the atmosphere supercharged with electricity, lightning darting from cloud to cloud, cloud to ground.
Up on a hill in the distance one can just perceive the faint outlines of a ruined medieval castle, turrets thrusting arrogantly if impotently into the sky, and atop the tallest spire, a slender lightning rod piercing the sky, waiting patiently for a stroke, that one stroke that would provide the necessary spark, the spark of life
errr, ummm, ahem, sorry, must've gotten a little carried away there. But perhaps that's understandable: it's all too easy for those of us brought up on the standard fare of scary flicks to be so moved by a wonderful if somewhat frightening storm. Those movies were light years from the slasher gore of today; back then it was all atmosphere and storms were a big part of it. Especially after Frankenstein. Who could easily forget the Universal classics, the original and the (some say superior) sequel, Bride Of Frankenstein? Colin Clive wide-eyed as the driven Victor, the inevitable and wonderful Dwight Frye as his lab assistant, and of course the great Karloff as the Monster.
Does anyone take issue with that last phrase? You should, you know.
Oh, not that Karloff wasn't great. Of course he was, we all know that. The part that deserves question is the defining of Frankenstein's creation as a "monster."
Unfair!
To who? Well, to the creature, of course! The poor thing was an object lesson in discrimination. Talk about out of place: he's not black, nor white, nor gray, but kinda greenish, and he's eight feet tall. He's as strong as ten men. Frightening? That goes without saying. But a monster?
Sure, he's different. But monstrous? In appearance, perhaps. But what's he really like? Why did he inspire such fear? Repulsion? That part's easy enough to understand. But fear?
You have to read the book to understand. You wouldn't know it from watching the Universal movie. It...ummm well, takes a few licenses with the story. Suffice it to say if you do read the book, you'll be getting a totally different account. And that's what this all leads to. Yes, I will confess it, though it pains me to do so: until I got my marching orders from Miss June a month or so ago, I uh .well.
I had never read Shelley's original book.
Sacrilege? Surely. But perhaps you'll forgive my overindulgence on modern genre literature (though in some cases--see my review in the last issue of Necropsy for just one example--"trash" might be more apt) and share my first-timer's enthusiasm for this classic book. I thoroughly enjoyed it, as much as I've enjoyed anything I've read in the past several years, at least.
Part of that enjoyment is in the contrast. The book is, as previously noted, different. There's no castle. No lab full of arcing, sparking machines. No "abby-normal" brain. No Dwight Frye, for heaven's sake. And the "monster"? Well, he's not so monstrous. Scary, yes, but with a purpose. The creature--and let's call him that henceforth, "monster" is so unfair--is nothing less than a tragic figure to equal most anything Shakespeare ever spawned. This is a being who walks through no fault of his own, alone, spurned even by his own creator, so hideous in appearance that he evokes fear despite his basic curious, gentle nature. He is no grunting, lumbering idiot a la Karloff's portrayal; on the contrary, he is a graceful, intelligent creature with a capacity for learning--and, yes, love--that rivals his size. There is about a 50 page segment told from the creature's point of view--a narrative within a narrative within a narrative, if you can believe it--that is at times positively heart-rending. All he wants is fellowship. All he gets is rejection. Is it any wonder he turns on his creator? In horrific ways, true, but what other way does he know to get attention?
For his part, Victor Frankenstein is arrogant and misguided and ultimately tragic, but far less so than his creation, for Frankenstein knows what he's doing. He's just not conscious of the possible consequences. Or perhaps he's simply too self-absorbed to care. Of course, once he does know, he understands, and thus when the creature approaches and demands Frankenstein create him a mate, the creator quite rightly refuses. And, unfortunately, he suffers the sad consequences. Or rather, those around him do, and he gets to watch it all. Some of it is quite grotesque.
Ultimately, then, this is a tragedy on the grandest possible scale. I won't attempt to further analyze Frankenstein; far better minds than my own have already done so, including one Keith Neilson, who in my copy of the book provides a brief history of Shelley's life as well as very appropriate foreword and afterward. No, I'll leave the readers (c'mon, admit you haven't read it yet either, and then pick it up) to draw their own conclusions.
But seriously, I do strongly urge anyone who has never read it, or hasn't read it lately, to do so, particularly with Halloween coming up. It's perfect for the occasion.
Another excellent choice is the somewhat more contemporary A. (for Abraham) Merritt. He might be better described as a sci-fi or fantasy author, but he certainly fits quite nicely into the broader definition of dark fantasy, and I certainly enjoyed The Face in the Abyss, which is a terrific yarn that, like Frankenstein, somehow manages to remain fresh despite its age. Sure, you name the cliché? It's probably in here: Graydon, an explorer, joins a group searching for lost treasure in the Andes. They encounter a beautiful, virginal young woman, Suarra, who is promptly molested by one of Grayson's companions, only to be stopped in the act by the heroic Graydon. Then the fun begins. Yes, it's boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy hunts for girl and finds her in a lost, threatened city populated by barbarians, dinosaurs, and half human spider-critters, all led by a beautiful, benevolent Lilith-like "Snake Mother" (whew!). And thus Graydon joins the Yu-Atlanchi in their apocalyptic battle against the Lord of Evil, Lantlu.
This is, in the briefest possible summation, pure pulp escapism like one would find in the pages of Weird Tales or Famous Fantastic Mysteries. It's also a potboiler, but it's a wonderful potboiler, and it's got some wild twists before its ultimately bittersweet ending. Like Shelley's work, Merritt's tale is written in period prose, his being a lush, descriptive style that some might describe as flowery yet somehow befits a fellow who loved raising unusual plants (for some reason at this point I'm picturing Morticia Addams again, with her creeping man-eater Cleopatra...). Besides, the language fits the story perfectly.
But back to the point: don't think for a minute that by referring to The Face in the Abyss as a pulpy potboiler that I'm putting it down. Perish the thought. It's a wonderfully engrossing and satisfying read, and as such I find it kind of odd and a little sad that contemporary Edgar Rice Burroughs is so well known even to this day, while Merritt hardly gets a mention. It's a pity, but it does make the process of discovery that much more exciting when one comes upon such a treasure. Just like Graydon meeting Suarra for the first time, you cant help but be captivated.
Put on a cup of nightshade tea, turn down the lights, sit back and enjoy this "classic" entertainment at its finest.
Letters...we get letters...
Ranted greetings go out to Cheryl Hernandez, who wrote to mention that she agreed with our assessment of The Haunting: "I love The Haunting and have read the book twice a year since seventh grade. I am 46 now. The math is scary. Thanks for the good words on the book and original black and white. The newer one seriously sucked." Hear, Hear! I quite agree, and fear not on the math, Ms. Cheryl. I'm 42 next week and that scares me as much as Leatherface ever could. Also, enjoy Freaks. Wish I could've been there to see it.
I stand corrected: Joseph Childress writes: "In your review of Alien, you say that the voice of Bart Simpson is Veronica Cartwright. Nancy Cartwright is actually the voice of Bart." Give that man a Blue Ribbon! Veronica Cartwright does have interesting TV roots, however; along with her many movie and television roles--including The Birds and Daniel Boone--she is also the older sister of Angela Cartwright, best known as "Penny Robinson" in Irwin Allen's Lost In Space! Thanks for the correction Joseph, and keep reading....
Keep those cards and letters coming! You can reach Jim, as ever, at thingsthatexplode@excite.com