Last week, we left off discussing Dracula and Frankenstein’s (both 1931) red carpet debuts, as well as their societal impacts. Now, before we begin this week, I am counting that article as required reading to get the sociocultural and historical background leading up to what we’ll be talking about this week, and in subsequent weeks, so go read that and come back. I’ll wait.
As promised, this week we’re discussing the queen of the man-disgusted hiss herself: The Bride. First introduced (at least in theory) in Mary Shelley’s 1818 novel, The Bride was the proposed mate to Victor Frankenstein’s loathsome creature to stop the potential of more bloodshed. However, once Frankenstein decided that giving his creation a mate could lead to even more carnage, he broke his promise to his Monster to create her. That decision ultimately led to more deaths, as well as Victor and his entire family’s demise. Sorry for the potential spoiler on a 200-year-old iconic novel.
The film, though, is quite different. Besides the obvious differences like name and timeline changes (it might be better to say that the Universal Studios Frankenstein films are “loosely inspired” by Shelley rather than being adaptations of her work), the film introduces a new antagonist that manipulates and blackmails Frankenstein into his participation in the creation of The Bride. Dr. Septimus Pretorius, the black magic philosopher and former teacher of Dr. Henry Frankenstein (Henry = Victor—stay with me), is the new dastardly recruit to the team. His goal is “a new world of gods and monsters,” and, clearly, the best way to make that happen is through resurrecting a dead woman to force her into being with a murderous creation when neither monster has any idea what’s going on or why. Nothing bad could happen there, right?
Before we get into The Bride herself, it’s important to give a little context as to what good ol’ Frankie (The Monster) has been up to during the film, as well as some new rules that gripped the Hollywood studios. Similarly to the novel, Frankie is condemned by society and runs in fear to the woods. There, he finds a blind hermit in a cottage who takes him in, feeds him, and begins to teach him how to speak. Their friendship is swiftly ended by two hunters who come to the cottage, recognize the creature, and destroy the place, leading Frankie to wander off in search of his creator.
Dr. Pretorius, the devilish madman, has hatched a plan for how to create The Bride, which he needs Henry for as he’s been previously unsuccessful. Part of his plan, obviously, includes finding a body and fresh organs for her revival. Where do those come from, you ask? Well, unsuspecting, innocent women, that’s who!
Now to the studio rules. Censorship isn’t a new concept, at least to modern audiences. We know that things are censored for morality and religion, with the degrees of censorship varying from place to place. The big kahuna of film censorship laws, The Hays Code,1 was enacted for Hollywood in 1934 and ran, at least loosely, until 1968 when it was replaced with the MPAA Guidelines. But what sparked the Hays Code?
The 1920s was, in many ways, a time of mass debauchery and scandal, and Hollywood was one of the worst offenders. After crimes like the murder of actor/director William Desmond Taylor and the rape and murder of Virginia Rappe by fellow actor Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle, churches, social groups, and political movements pushed for change to stop the danger and scandal ripping through Hollywood. In response, Hays introduced “The Formula” in 1924 (a set of rules and regulations that should be followed for public decency). After a few different legislation and overall rule changes, Joseph Breen brought the Hays Code specifically to film in 1934 to make content more acceptable for public audiences.
If you watch Frankenstein (1931) and Bride of Frankenstein (1935) back to back, there are some noticeable differences in how things are presented, said, and filmed. The Bride is much cleaner and “godlier” to follow along with the code. Perhaps, then, that’s part of the reason for her actions and reactions.
Madeleine Ernestine—ever heard of her? Probably not, since she only has a 5-second off-handed mention in the film, but she is the body behind The Bride. Alone and forgotten by the world, the perfect body to steal from her crypt and take to the laboratory for her reanimation. I’d scream and hiss, too, if I were brought back from the dead only to be surrounded by strange men trying to marry me off.
The Bride, despite being the subject, is only physically in the last four minutes of the film. Her actress, Elsa Lanchester, however, also plays her writer, Mary Shelley, in the prologue to the film. It’s no coincidence that the creator and The Monster are played by the same person. The film begins with narration by Lord Byron, Percy Shelley, and Mary, with mutual shock from the men over Mary’s “bland and lovely brow” conceiving such a horrible tale.2 Women—such fragile creatures, am I right? Mary then continues her story where the last film left off, and the last time we see the actress, shockingly, as Madeleine—alive once more.
It seems almost contradictory that a monster with less than 5 minutes of screen time became so iconic. Maybe it’s that she’s the only mainstream female monster. Maybe it’s her memorable look with that hair piled up to the sky. Or maybe it’s how she reacted to her intended mate. “The Bride of Frankenstein” suggests a willing participant, not a woman whose first reaction is to scream, hiss, and run.
The interesting thing about the film being called “The Bride of Frankenstein” is that there are really two brides. There’s Madeleine, the reanimated, unwilling Bride, and then there’s Elizabeth, the new Baroness Frankenstein who is harassed and kidnapped by The Monster and Dr. Pretorius right after her wedding to Henry. The women, despite never really meeting, are two sides of the same coin. Both are tied to Henry Frankenstein, both are victims of their environment, both are controlled to some extent by Pretorius’ actions, and both are able to fight against a life someone else has assigned them. Maybe most interestingly, both get a second chance at life, in one way or another, and choose what they do with it.
1935, thanks to the Hays Code, was a time when sexual deviancy or anything akin to ungodliness was strictly verboten. In many ways, that’s probably a strong reason for Madeleine’s refusal of The Monster. Something that God would turn his back on had to be something that she, too, would reject.
The 30s audiences who saw The Bride of Frankenstein, especially the women, saw a woman who had no choice in any part of her second life and death. She never agreed to her role as The Bride and future mother of monsters. She never agreed to the murder of an innocent girl so she could have a new heart. She never agreed to be a pawn in a mad scientist’s game. Madeleine’s refusal to even touch Frankenstein’s Monster was revolutionary. Her whole purpose was to follow along and be with him, yet she refused. Death (for the second time) was preferable to something she didn’t choose.
When audiences saw The Bride, they saw someone they could perhaps relate to. Someone who was a victim of circumstance, but this time fought back. Gone was the shrinking, fainting violet who caved because she had no other options. This violet, (black dahlia might be more fitting for her) wasn’t going down without a fight and the gnashing of teeth. Many women then, and now, find The Bride to be a compelling character not only because of her refusal but also because of her visceral fear and repulsion. She did something that many women have always wished they could do: say no and be heard. It’s one thing to turn down a man kindly and sweetly, it’s another to let him have it with no care over the consequences.
I re-watched The Bride of Frankenstein this week for the first time in several years to write this article.3 While I’m sure it probably wasn’t a conscious thought of the writers of the film, I do find it interesting that her short 4 minutes of a second life end in her destruction simply because of her disgust. Margaret Atwood famously said, “Men are afraid that women will laugh at them, and women are afraid that men will kill them,” and the film shows just that.4 She rejects The Monster and pays with her life. Whether The Monster chose to kill himself (or did he…?), Dr. Pretorius, and Madeleine because he thought “we belong dead” was a good idea or not, it doesn’t change the fact that she was still destroyed because of her rejection. Of course, it’s possible that if she’d gotten the chance to get to know him, she’d have warmed up to him, but it’s the force and removal of her choice that people have latched onto in recent years.
The Bride has always been my favorite horror icon. She’s the only monster who never took a life, but she packed a stronger punch than all the others combined in her mere 4 minutes of stardom. Of course, it’s possible that I love her because we share a name. I feel like Madeleine (The Bride) in many ways represents the experiences of women throughout history, including myself, except she got to fight back against the men trying to control her. Her towering height and hair are as unforgettable as her hiss, but she, the person, has been forgotten. If Madeleine was that spunky in death, I wonder what she would’ve been like in life.
The moral of the film and story itself, I think, lies in something Mary says during the prologue. “[they] didn’t understand that my purpose was to write a moral lesson of the punishment that befell a mortal man who dared to emulate God.” Besides the obvious ties to the Hays Code, it mirrors the thoughts that the real Shelley wrote in her novel. To have that much power is a dangerous thing. When power is exploited, people get hurt. The obvious offender is Victor Frankenstein, but his creation follows in his footsteps by trying to “emulate god” in his own way in both the films and novel. Mary, the “god” of her own story, and Madeleine, the victim a mad scientist “god” both being played by the same actress is an allusion to what happens when you take your power too far: the punishment for your actions may lie dormant in the thing you wanted most, but you’ll pay for your wrongs one way or another.
Next week we’ll discuss the post-war monsters who grew in both size and popularity.
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Are you scared yet?
“I'd scream and hiss, too, if I were brought back from the dead only to be surrounded by strange men trying to marry me off.” A great line for sure.
I haven’t seen the Bride of Frankenstein (though I know her iconic image), but this will be valuable context when I inevitably watch it.
This reads like the video essays I watch on YouTube, which is a compliment. It’s informative, thoughtful, and wholly engaging.
Thank you so much!
If you want to watch it, and some of the other Universal Monster movies, I know they’re streaming on Peacock right now! I had a fun marathon of them the other day. There are a lot more than the few I’ve talked about, but they share the same social parallels.
I take that as a huge compliment—thank you! I’m trying to make them informative enough to hold your attention but not too info dumpy that you lose interest, so I’m glad it came across that way. Thank you for always reading 🫶