Frankenstein at Prince’s.
You and I—the modern ones—have been brought up to believe that the last ecstacy in thrills was always signed by Edgar Wallace—whether as a story or a play. Believe me, Edgar Wallace never wrote anything nearly as thrilling as Frankenstein, the drama which has been written by Peggy Webling from the story by Mrs. Shelley, the wife of the classic poet. Frankenstein, the monster created by the ingenuity of man and destructive of its creator, makes the Edgar Wallace crook look like a Sunday school Superintendent. It keeps strong, silent men all of a tremble: it impresses even the man—a theatrical critic, for example—who knows all the tricks of the profession and all about the reliance theatrical producers place upon the green spot-light.
Frankenstein was produced at the Birmingham Prince of Wales theatre last night prior to London production. One can prophesy for it a vogue surpassing that of Dracula, which was also discovered by London through being produced at the Prince’s. It is full-blooded, fearsome melodrama: and, unlike Dracula, it has sanity and a well-told, convincing story.
And it is acted superbly. Anybody who can overcome stage-fright and be natural can act an ordinary modern play. But it takes genius to deal with a play like Frankenstein as Hamilton Deane and his company deal with it. Hamilton Deane himself is such an actor as London is certain shortly to acclaim as a master of craft. He is magnificent—a master of every tone and gesture. And, unlike most actor-managers, he does not surround himself, for his greater glory, with incompetents.
B.
