How beautifully dramatic.
The crudest, savage, exhibition of nature at her worst, without,
and we three, we elegant three, within.
I should like to think that an irate Jehovah
was pointing those arrows of lightning directly at my head.
The unbowed head of George Gordon, Lord Byron, England's greatest sinner.
But I cannot flatter myself to that extent.
Possibly those thunders are for our dear Shelley.
Heaven's applause for England's greatest poet.
What of my Mary? She is an angel.
You think so?
Come, Mary. Come and watch the storm.
You know how lightning alarms me.
Shelley, darling, will you please light these candles for me?
I, Lord Byron? Frightened of thunder, fearful of the dark.
And yet you have written a tale that sent my blood into icy creeps.
Look at her, Shelley. Can you believe that lovely brow conceived of Frankenstein?
A monster created from cadavers out of rifled graves.
Isn't it astonishing? I don't know why you should think so.
What do you expect?
Such an audience needs something stronger than a pretty little love story.
So why shouldn't I write of monsters?
No wonder Murray's refused to publish the book. His public would be shocked.
It will be published, I think.
Then, darling, you will have much to answer for.
The publishers did not see that my purpose was to write a moral lesson
of the punishment that befell a mortal man who dared to emulate God.
Whatever your purpose was, I take great relish in savouring each separate horror.
I roll them over on my tongue.
Don't, Lord Byron. Don't remind me of it tonight.
What a setting in that churchyard to begin with!
The sobbing women, the first clod of earth o"n the coffin. That was a pretty chill."
the body out of its new-made grave.
the gallows, where he swung in the wind.
in his mountain laboratory,
building up a human monster
a half-crazed brain could have devised.
the little child who "drowned.
thrown from the top of the burning mill
by the very monster he had created.
And it was these fragile white fingers that penned the nightmare.
Ah! You've made me prick myself, Byron.
There, there. I do think it a shame, Mary, to end your story quite so suddenly.
That wasn't the end at all. Would you like to hear what happened after that?
I feel like telling it.
It's a perfect night for mystery and horror.
The air itself is filled with monsters.
I'm all ears. While heaven blasts the night without, open up your pits of hell.
Well, then, imagine yourselves standing by the wreckage of the mill.
The fire is dying down.
Soon the bare skeleton o"f the building rolls over,"
the gaunt rafters against the sky.
Well, I must say, that's the best fire I ever saw in all me life.
What are you cryin' for? It's terrible.
I know. But after all them murders and poor Mr Henry being brought home to die,
I'm glad to see the monster roasted to death before my very eyes.
It's too good for him.
It's all the devil's work, and you'd better cross yourself quick before he gets you.
Come along, come along. It's all over.
Get back to your homes and go to sleep.
There it goes again. It ain't burnt out at all.
There's more yet. Isn't the monster dead yet?
It's high time every decent man and wife was in bed.
That's his insides caught at last.
Insides is always the last to be consumed.
Move on. You've had enough excitement for one night.
This strange man you call a monster is dead.
You may thank your lucky stars they sent for me to safeguard life and property.
Why didn't you safeguard those drownded and murdered?
Come, now. We want no rallying, no riots.
Who's riotin'? Move on, move on.
Good night all, and pleasant dreams.
Ah, pleasant dreams yourself.
Thinks he's everybody just because he's a burgomaster. Huh!
Poor Mr Henry. He was to have been married today to that lovely girl Elizabeth.
Cover him up. Someone must break the news to the poor girl.
Ride as fast as you can to the castle,
and tell the old Baron Frankenstein we are bringing his son home.
Oh, dear. Oh, shut up.
Come home, Hans. The monster is dead now.
Nothing could be left alive in that furnace. Why do you stay here?
I want to see with my own eyes.
Oh, Hans, he must be dead.
And, dead or alive, nothing can bring our little Maria back to us.
If I can see his blackened bones, I can sleep at night.
Come back, Hans! You will be burned yourself!
Maria drowned to death and you burned up! What should I do then?
Where are you? Hans! Are you all right?
I hear you. Here, give me your hand, Hans.
Oh, heaven, what is this?
Henry? Tell me.
Oh, milady, how can we tell you?
Bring him in.
Albert. What do you want?
It's alive. The monster, it's alive!
Ah, shut up, you old fool. I saw it.
It ain't turned to no skeleton at all.
It lived right through the fire.
Ah, go bite your tongue off. We don't believe in ghosts.
Nobody'll believe me.
All right, I'll wash my hands of it.
Let 'em all be murdered in their beds.
Speak to me, Henry. Oh, milady, he'll never speak again.
I was foretold of this.
I was told beware my wedding night.
Oh, look, milady! He's alive!
Oh, what a terrible wedding night.
You can go to bed now, Mary.
You'll soon be better. I feel almost myself again.
When you're strong enough, we'll go away and forget this horrible experience.
Forget? If only I could forget.
But it's never out of my mind.
I've been cursed for delving into the mysteries of life.
Perhaps death is sacred, and I've profaned it.
For what a wonderful vision it was.
I dreamed of being the first to give to the world the secret that God is so jealous of.
The formula for life.
Think of the power to create a man.
And I did. I did it. I created a man.
And who knows? In time I could have trained him to do my will.