Pygmalion’s statue of a maiden was endowed with life—and he loved her.  Henry Frankenstein poured his elixir of life into the veins of the monster he had compounded from corpses—and hate and terror were born. This frightful being had inordinate strength and animal passions, was all-powerful for evil, and yet yearned for human sympathy and understanding.

 

The story of Frankenstein was written by Mrs. Shelley in 1816; it is now transformed into a play which for the number of shudders per square inch has “Dracula” and other notable thrillers beaten to a frazzle.

 

Frankenstein is being performed at the Opera House this week, prior to production in London. It is on rare occasions that Coventry is accorded such a privilege; it is rare that such magnificent acting is seen on a local stage as that provided by Mr. Hamilton Deane, Mr. G. Malcolm Russell, and Mr. Desmond Greene.

 

Mr. Deane’s Frankenstein is a masterly performance; horrible, ghastly, and yet pitiable. “My Master!” sneers the brute-man realising that the power has passed from his creator to himself, and thereafter follows the frightful ordeal of Henry, in his efforts to escape from the terror he has let loose upon the world.

 

Frankenstein demands a mate like unto himself; Henry is faced with the terrible prospect of filling the world with Frankensteins. Mr. Russell most adequately portrays the horror, loathing, and fear, of a tortured soul; the acting of Mr. Desmond Greene as the doctor, reaches its greatest heights in his frenzied appeal to his pupil to accept death rather than to create another monster from the graves and dissecting rooms. These three actors receive more than competent support from the rest of the company.

 

At the conclusion last night Mr. Deane was called before the curtain and in a modest little speech thanked the audience for the reception accorded “our weird little play.”