Frankenstein, which Mr. Hamilton Deane and his company bring to the Prince of Wales Theatre this week is to the ordinary thriller as a Poe story is to a nursery rhyme.

The play is so steeped in horror, so gruesome in its workings on the imagination that it might well have been written by the great master of horrible phantasy.
 

Actually, it is founded on ancient legend and made into a play by Peggy Webling from the story by Mrs. Shelley, the poet’s wife.

Those who saw Kapek’s R.U.R., will recall the thrill created by the appearance of the Robots, the machine men. Frankenstein is no Robot. He is a creature of flesh and blood, hideously fashioned by the hand of man, given life by the will of man. He is horrible in his soulless strength, pitiable in his groping ignorance.

There is no denying the power of this play—prejudiced though one may be against blood-curdling productions. And there is no denying the power with which it is acted.

 
Mr. Hamilton Deane, with high skill, succeeds in being a man and yet no man: a figure of terror and pathos. Mr. G. Malcolm Russell acts with whole-hearted vigour as Frankenstein’s creator and there is no really weak link.

Acting of such full-blooded nature is rarely seen in the theatre of to-day. Mr. Deane and his colleagues deserve congratulation and thanks for raising the old flag and letting us see how bravely it flutters.