Frankenstein on the Stage. Successful play based on old-time thriller. By Our Own Correspondent.
All I can remember about the novel, Frankenstein, by Mary Woelstonecraft [sic] Shelley, is that in my extreme youth I was strictly forbidden to read it—and failed to do so.
For, truth to tell, the novel is of gargantuan length, and—especially in these days of compression—would appal the stoutest heart. Our thanks are therefore due to Peggy Webling for extracting all the “meaty bits” from the novel, and giving us the thrills in the three hours traffic of the stage, as she does in her play, Frankenstein, successfully produced at the Little Theatre.
Even though the novel is as dead as the dodo, most of us remember the story of how a scientist, Henry Frankenstein, created a monster by occult means, and how, having created it, he kept it in subjection solely by ill treatment. Also,it may be recalled, how, having looked upon the young scientist’s fiancee and found her to his liking, the monster demanded of his creator that a mate should be made by the same occult means.
Threatened with death, the scientist agrees to the proposal, but finally thinks better of it and destroys the elixir which gives life to inert matter. The monster, baulked of his desires, strangles his maker and is immediately afterwards killed by lightning.
Not what you would call a cheery bedtime story, but one which admirably answers its purpose at the Little Theatre of making an audience’s blood run colder than is caused by a frosty night.
It also answers the purpose of allowing the cast a chance of distinguishing themselves, and Hamilton Deane—who was responsible for the production of Dracula—gives as the monster a really horrific performance. Not one inch behind him is Henry Hallatt as the misguided scientist, whose agony of soul is really well depicted, while others who stood out in a good all round company were G. Malcolm Russell, as an elderly doctor of science; Dora May [sic] Patrick, as Henry Frankenstein’s sister, whom the monster murders by mistake; and Kathleen Grace, on whom the monster set longing eyes, and who shrieked most effectively.
If Dracula ran for months Frankenstein should run for years. A shudder a second! For what more could an audience ask?
