Read Part 2
In late summer 1938, Los Angeles' Regina Theater was as close to shutting its doors forever as it had ever been when its manager, desperate for bottoms in his seats, leased inexpensive prints of Frankenstein, Dracula, and Son of Kong. Hoping to entice monster movie fans, bargain hunters, and anyone looking to get out of the rain, that nameless entrepreneur almost single-handedly jump-started the "Silver Age" of horror films. The triple-feature revival broke all house records and sent Universal a wake-up call it wouldn't forget (John T. Soister in Of Gods and Monsters: A Critical Guide to Universal Studios' Science Fiction, Horror and Mystery Films, 1929-1939).
ZC Rating 6 of 7: Classic
“Your pants are talking,” said Wally the Bat.
“What...oh.” I reached into my pocket for the two-way radio.
“Zoc? Zoc? Where are you?” It was Zombos’ voice. He sounded frantic.
“Yes, what is it? I'm still--“ I looked at Wally. “I’m still in the attic.”
“It is your--”
A bolt of lightning flashed close to the mansion. quickly followed by a thunderous boom. It shook the dormer window open again.
“What’s that? I didn’t hear you,” I said through the static.
The door to the attic flew open. A tall, slim silhouette glided ominously through the door frame and headed toward me.
“It is your sister!" said Zombos. "I tried to warn you. She is--”
“Iloz! Where the hell are you?” she loudly asked. "This place is a mess. What the hell is taking you so long. Ouch!" She tripped in the gloom. "Where the hell are the lights? I can't see a thing."
Wally the Bat, startled, squeaked as he rapidly unfurled his wings. “Time to go! It's been a real pleasure.” He flew out the dormer window.
I closed it behind him, wishing I could do the same thing. My sister Trixie was coming closer.
"You're all wet! Well, don't stand there like a cow," said Trixie. "Everybody's waiting for the birthday boy." She took me by the arm and alternately pushed and pulled me downstairs.
"Here he is!" announced Trixie as she pushed me into the drawing room. Everyone was gathered around Chef Machiavelli and his serving cart. He held a large cake knife poised at the ready. My birthday cake shimmered beneath the flames of numerous red candles. Ace of Cakes would have been jealous; 1313 Mockingbird Lane was represented right down to the crooked bat weather vane.
"I don't recall the Grim Reaper appearing in any episode," I said, noticing the hooded scion of death standing, scythe poised at the ready, on the porch.
"The Grim Reaper is my idea," said Trixie. "I thought you would adore it. Well go on. Hurry up and blow out the candles."
"Marilyn Munster I adore. Don't rush me. I'm savoring the moment. You don't turn fifty-two more than once, you know." I sucked in a long breadth, took aim at the little plastic Grim Reaper, and blew out the candles. He held fast.
"How does it feel being fifty-two?" asked Zimba, pulling a candle out to lick the icing.
"A lot like fifty-one, only older," I replied.
The number fifty-two: it's the atomic number of tellurium. It's one of the tombstones in Goth: The Game of Horror Trivia. The Mayan Calendar moves through a complete cycle every fifty-two years. At age fifty-two, Alfred Hitchcock directed Strangers on a Train. At fifty-two, Boris Karloff played the Frankenstein monster, in earnest, for the third and last time in Son of Frankenstein.
"What were you doing stumbling around up there?" asked Trixie as she helped remove the candles.
"Zombos thought he left his--"
"Oh, let us not start this again," said Zombos. "I clearly remember I did put it--"
"Hush," said Zimba. "You'd forget where your own head was if it wasn't bolted on." She pulled out the last candle. "Let's cut the cake!"
"I can help with that," volunteered Trixie. Before I could stop her she snapped her fingers. Instinct took over and I ducked just in time. The cake split open down the middle, sending the Grim Reaper high into the air along with most of the cake's hazelnut icing. Zombos was standing closest to the calamity. Zimba handed him a napkin to wipe the icing off his glasses as he removed the Grim Reaper now stuck in his hair.
"Oops. Sorry. I thought I had that spell down pat." My sister's witchery skills always did leave much to be desired.
"So. How are those lessons coming along at the Witch Finders School of Cauldronic Arts? asked Zombos.
"Never mind, dear," said Zimba. "No harm done." She gave Zombos her always persuasive stare-of-Medusa and he kept quiet. "Let's get comfortable by the fire while Rudolpho puts more frosting on the cake."
Only Zimba called Chef Machiavelli by his first name. Mostly because only she could keep a straight face while doing so. Rudolpho wheeled the cake back to the kitchen as we made ourselves comfortable by the fire. Lightning still flashed now and then across the large windowpanes, and streams of water ran pell-mell across the glass. The roaring flame on the grate lulled me with thoughts of torches held high by beleaguered villagers chasing down the Frankenstein Monster, again and again...
...Lightning, dreary near endless drizzle, and beleaguered people play their important parts in all the Frankenstein films. It took four years after Frankenstein to make the lonely monster a reluctant mate in Bride of Frankenstein, and another four years for Wolf Von Frankenstein to take on his father's less than stellar work habits in Son of Frankenstein, to restore the Monster's health.
Boris Karloff returns as the Monster, but he is a ghost of his former self, playing a lesser role as foil to Bela Lugosi's virtuoso performance as another equally undying monster, Ygor. Finally, the Monster has found a friend, although a homicidal miscreant one with a penchant for black humor. With Basil Rathbone as the effusive Wolf Von Frankenstein and Lionel Atwill as the studious Inspector Krogh playing to the rafters, Lugosi's Ygor takes center stage this time around. Karloff realized his beloved creation had become just another fixture in the mad scientist's lab, like the glassware and electrical apparatus, providing the method but no longer the means to an end; Frankenstein's Monster, truly given life by Karloff the Uncanny's emotive portrayal, had been reduced to mere appliances and neck bolts anyone willing to undergo the grueling makeup process could wear.
The humanity and soul-stirrings of Frankenstein's creation were not the only things left out in subsequent movies. Any dichotomy of nature versus nurture, dialectic regarding the balance between responsibility and determinism, and all displays of sympathy gave way to a plot gimmick that begins in Son of Frankenstein and continues through Abbot and Costello Meet Frankenstein: since the monster's brain is bad, he is bad; replace his brain with a good one and he becomes good. But first, like a drained rechargeable battery, he must be powered up to full strength through his bolt-like electrodes before the operation can take place.
The role of the Monster was not the only thing that changed. Son of Frankenstein stands as the bridge spanning the ambivalent melancholia and mania of James Whale's and Todd Browning's Gothic night sweats to the slick-slacks, cleaned-and-pressed, B-budget features of Universal's front-office controlled monster package, designed for a new decade of movie-goers versed in the realities and hardships of World War II. But it is an impressive bridge, nonetheless, thanks in large part to four consummate actors playing horror for all it was worth and then some.
