Bride of Frankenstein

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

myseIf 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.

You hear?

Come, Mary.

Come and watch the storm.

You know how

lightning alarms me.

Shelley, darling, will you

please light these candles for me?

Oh, Mary, darling.

Astonishing creature.

l, 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 bland and

lovely brow conceived of Frankenstein,

a monster created from

cadavers out of rifled graves?

lsn't it astonishing?

l 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

l write of monsters?

No wonder Murray has

refused to publish the book.

He says his reading public

would be too shocked.

It will be published,

l 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.

Well, whatever your purpose

may have been, my dear,

l take great relish in

savoring each separate horror.

l 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 on the coffin.

That was a pretty chill.

Frankenstein and the dwarf

stealing the body

out of its new-made grave,

cutting the hanged man

down from the gallows,

where he swung

creaking in the wind.

The cunning of Frankenstein

in his mountain laboratory,

taking dead men apart and

building up a human monster,

so fearful

and so horrible,

that only a haIf-crazed

brain could have devised.

And then the murders...

The little child drowned.

Henry Frankenstein himseIf

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.

Oh! You've made me

prick myseIf, Byron.

It's bleeding.

There, there.

l 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?

l feel like telling it.

It's the perfect night

for mystery and horror.

The air itseIf

is filled with monsters.

I'm all ears.

While heaven blasts the night

without, open up your pits of hell.

Well, then, imagine yourseIf

standing by the wreckage of the mill.

The fire is dying down.

Soon the bare skeleton of

the building will be visible,

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 crying for?

It's terrible.

l know it's terrible,

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 better cross yourseIf

quick, Marta, before he gets you.

Come along, come along.

It's all over.

Get back to your homes.

Go to sleep.

Whoo!

There it goes again! t ain't

burned out at all. There's more yet.

lsn't the monster dead yet?

It's high time every decent

man and wife was in bed.

That's his insides,

caught at last.

lnsides 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.

"Monster," indeed.

You may thank

your lucky stars

they sent for me to

safeguard life and property.

Why didn't you safeguard those

what lies drowned and murdered?

Come now. We want no rioting. No riots.

Who's rioting?

Move on, move on.

Good night, all,

and pleasant dreams.

Ah, pleasant dreams,

yourseIf.

Thinks he's everybody, just because

he's the burgomaster.

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?

l want to see

with me 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,

l can sleep at night.

Come back, Hans!

You will be

burned yourseIf!

Maria drowned to death

and you burned up.

What should I do then?

No!

Ah!

Hans! Hans, where are you?

Hans! Are you all right?

l hear you. Here.

Give me your hand, Hans.

Here.

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!

Oh, shut up,

you old fool.

l saw it.

It ain't turned

to no skeleton at all.

It lived right

through the fire.

Go bite your tongue off.

We don't believe in ghosts.

Rate this script:0.0 / 0 votes