And, inside a police station, Denham and Driscoll arrived there to consult the police as to what could be done, heard the voice of a radio announcer:
Kong is climbing the Empire State Building. He is still carrying Ann Darrow. That is all!
Finality… nothing could be done. Suddenly, however, Driscoll leapt to his feet with a great cry.
‘Airplanes! If Kong should put Ann down, they might fly close enough to pick him off–’
But already the police officer was at the ‘phone. Within a short while, four army ‘planes were zooming around Kong, standing on the dome of the Empire Building. One of the machines swooped down on him, guns spewing leaden death. Uttering his awful, deafening cry Kong swatted at it as if it were a fly.
He missed and climbed from the flat roof on to the very top of the Dome. He waved his long arms up and out, and took a machine by the wing with one great paw – and then dropped it into the lighted abyss that was New York.
As the machine crashed to earth, another swooped and a hail of hot lead seared into the great ape’s body. Kong clapped a paw to his wounded chest, took it away, looked at the blood on it, moved round a little and tried to snatch at another ‘plane as it went past; then clapped a paw to his throat as bullets took him.
His lips curled back with pain. He felt his wounded chest, teetered on unsteady feet. He swayed, tried to save himself, failed, and dropped off the edge, to hit the ground with a crash that came up to the roof of the building as Driscoll opened a door there.
‘Ann. . . Ann, hold on!’ Driscoll yelled, climbing the ladder leading to the parapet beneath the Dome. Ann was there, on the edge, seeming as if she must roll over. In the nick of time he reached her.
‘Are you – all – right?’ he gasped. She clung fearfully to his arm and they looked down into the depths into which the Eighth Wonder of the World had found disaster.
THE BRIDE OF FRANKENSTEIN
by Mary Shelley & Guy Preston
Carlos Clarens, the American historian who spoke so highly of King Kong, has similarly praised The Bride Of Frankenstein (1935), the first of the many sequels to Universal’s Frankenstein. In his book, he declares unequivocally, ‘The Bride Of Frankenstein is, along with King Kong, Hollywood’s finest moment of unbridled imagination.’ This matches my own estimation of the movie, which is why it is represented here.
The sequel to the story of the ‘mad scientist’ Frankenstein and his creation of a monster came about as a direct result of the enormous success of the original. Universal Pictures again called in scriptwriter John L Balderston, to find a way of reviving the creature who had last been seen perishing in a fire in an old mill. He came up with the idea that the monster had actually escaped the flames by falling through the mill floor into a flooded cellar – and it was from there that he arose to start another reign of terror, while trying at the same time to win the heart of the ‘bride’ who had been created in the same manner as himself The beautiful Elsa Lanchester, the wife of Charles Laughton, was an inspired choice for this title part.
A long with Boris Karloff to play the monster, Universal Pictures also recalled James Whale to reprise his director’s role, and the resulting film not only proved a marvellous work of fantasy, but many critics and audiences voted it better even than the original. The British film historian Denis Gifford, for one, has described it as ‘a sequel that improves on the original’, and writing in his Pictorial History Of Horror Movies (1973), said ‘The Bride Of Frankenstein remains the biggest-budgeted, best-dressed, highest-polished, finest-finished horror film in history.’ Several writers have also pointed out that the sequel film is actually closer than its predecessor to Mary Shelley’s original novel, Frankenstein, Or A Modern Prometheus, which was first published in 1818.
Not surprisingly, The Bride Of Frankenstein proved yet another box office winner all over the world, and in the immediate aftermath was turned into a novella. (This was followed by a full-length novel – written by Michael Egremont and published in 1936 by The Reader’s Library – which is now a much sought-after collector’s item.) The film was adapted as a novella by Guy Preston in October 1935 for the popular English journal, Pearson’s Weekly, copies of which are now extremely scarce. Preston, about whom very little is known beyond the fact that he was a prolific writer of horror stories for English magazines and is still remembered for two blood-curdlers, “The Inn” (1932) and “The Way He Died” (1933), captured much of the tension and atmosphere of the film in his polished adaptation. In an introduction to his work, Preston expressed his admiration for both the picture and the original creator of the characters, Mary Shelly, which is the reason for the linking of their names beneath the title. In the intervening years, this remarkable monster movie has inspired a considerable number of sequels, the latest being The Bride, which was released in 1985, starring the pop singer, Sting.
* * *
Night was casting her shadows over the little village of Ingolstadt – and the Monster was dead!
Around the smouldering ruins of the old mill the villagers still shrieked their hate, but mingled with their shouts were cries of joy. At last it would be possible to sleep in peace. The terror had been destroyed.
At the side of the little hillock topped by the glowing wreckage, an old man and woman were standing. They had been there all day, waiting for the end. Now, his eyes crazed with pain as those of a maddened bull, the old fellow stared dumbly at the Monster’s pyre.
A charred beam fell with a crash on to the smoking heap. The embers stirred and glowed, and a new flame leaped skyward. The old man’s lips moved, and he shook off the woman’s detaining hand fiercely.
His words came in a groan of anguish: ‘Maria! My daughter – my little girl! IT killed her!’
Tenderly his wife put her arm about him. Her own grief was forgotten in her fear for his reason.
‘Come home, Hans,’ she urged him. The Monster is dead now. Nothing could live through that furnace. Why stay here longer?’
He shook his head. A shower of sparks spat venomously up at the night sky from the crackling beam lying athwart the ruin. Once more his lips parted.
‘I must see him with my own eyes,’ he muttered, as one who spoke to calm his own soul. ‘If I can but see his blackened bones – I may sleep at night.’
Slowly he made his way towards the ruins.
One by one the villagers were departing, urged homeward by the burgomaster. They went in little groups, for few could summon the courage to walk alone at night so soon after the nightmare had passed. Soon only the woman was left to watch the smouldering pile and the stumbling, halting figure of her good man.
With faltering footsteps the old fellow made his way to the edge of the burned-out mill. The villagers had done their work well. The heat was terrific. Hans felt the dense smoke slewing on the breeze, prick at his old eyes till the tears came. For his child he could not weep. Some sorrows cut too deep.
A sudden fear came to the woman on the hillside.
‘Come back!’ she called. ‘You will be burnt yourself.’
For a moment Hans hesitated. Did he hear her? Or was he but searching for a firm foothold?
Gingerly, he placed one foot on an ashen pile. It seemed safe enough. He leaned his weight upon it and peered for the brute’s remains.
His wife’s warning scream came too late.
A pile of blackened bricks fell with a crash beside him, and the ground seemed to open under his feet. With a startled cry the old man flung up his arms and plunged forward – forward and downward!
A shower of red-hot debris sparked all about him. A rush of cold air raced past his ears. With a mighty splash Hans struck the icy water of the mill’s underground cistern. He was trapped.
Coughing and spluttering, he came up to the surface and began to swim. If only he could keep up until his wife came or brought help.
An iron bar projected from the side of the well. He made for it with the heavy deliberate strokes of an ageing man. If he could
cling to that.
A sudden swirl in the water brought his head round with a jerk. It was dark down here. Only the glow of the smoking timbers up above illuminated the dank moss-strewn walls.
He screwed up his eyes with the effort to see.
Splash!
There it was again! Nearer this time. Something slithering in the darkness. Over to his left. He drew himself up by his bar and peered.
Something was heaving up out of the water beside him. It seemed as though it would never stop. Higher and higher it grew until it loomed gigantic over him. IT turned its head.
With a shriek he loosed the bar and struck out. The Monster was alive – alive!
Like a streak a giant hand clamped on the withered neck, thrusting it down – down. There was a feeble struggle, a gurgle, the splash of beating limbs against water – and Hans lay still. Then with a wordless roar of animal fury, Frankenstein’s Monster lifted the drowned body in its arms and hurled it blindly at the wall.
The skull cracked and the corpse slipped out of sight; and at the same moment from the ruins above there sounded the voice of the dead man’s wife.
‘Are you there, Hans? Hans, where are you? Hans!’
The Monster’s lips parted in a crack of fiendish glee and an unholy light gleamed from behind its loathsome eyes. The red glow from the embers illumined its face as it groped – upward, upward–
Raising itself still higher it reached a hand through a crack in the ruins. The woman grasped it.
‘Oh, thank God, Hans!’ she gasped. ‘There you are. Wait, and I’ll pull you up.’
Back in the Schloss von Frankenstein there was rejoicing. Young Baron Frankenstein had regained consciousness for the first time since the Monster’s murderous assault.
He looked up with gratitude in his eyes as he saw his wife bending over him, and guessed that it was thanks to her nursing that he was better.
Elizabeth Frankenstein and Minnie, her maid, guarded him jealously, and soon he was well on the way to recovery.
Naturally enough, feeling his strength return, he hankered to go on with his experiments. But on one point Elizabeth was firm. There was to be no more ghoulish tampering with the dead.
‘Forget all that horror,’ she implored him. ‘It was never meant that we should know those things – the secrets of life and death.’
Her husband looked at her fondly. Heaven knew that he loved her – that he would do most things in his power to please her. But to abandon research just now, when he had achieved the superhuman? Ah, no, he argued, it was unfair of her to ask.
‘I dreamed of being the first to give to the world the secret of which God is so jealous,’ he told her, sitting in the great pannelled room which was his favourite. ‘I yearned for the formula for Life.’ A light came into his eyes, and he went on eagerly: ‘Think of the power it gave me – to create a man! And I did it! Who knows, in time I might have trained him to do my will. I could have bred a race!’
Gently Elizabeth smoothed his brow, smiling when she saw the wrinkles melt. But there was an undercurrent of fear in her voice as she warned him.
‘Henry, don’t say those things. Don’t think them – as you love me.’
She knew that Frankenstein had ever longed for power. Now that he had achieved the warped ambition on which he had set his heart, she dreaded the overwhelming brilliance of his brain.
Many times they talked together like this, and frequently she urged Frankenstein to yield to her wish to go abroad far from the scene of his vile creation.
But late one night, when the wind howled like a thousand tortured devils round the tall battlements of the castle, there came a knock at the heavy oak door which shattered forever the hope that was dawning in Elizabeth’s heart.
It was Minnie who answered the summons. A queer, tall man smiled down at her. There was that in his glittering eyes which struck terror as she backed involuntarily before him. Somehow she knew instinctively that he had come for no good purpose.
‘Tell the Baron Frankenstein that Doctor Pretorius is here on a secret matter of grave importance,’ said the stranger, not unmusically. ‘Tell him that I must see him alone – tonight.’
Minnie’s scared glance flickered up and down the long black cloak which wrapped the stranger. It reminded her of the pall which had covered her father’s coffin. She shivered.
‘The master’s a-bed,’ she quavered, flinching despite herself under the tall man’s gaze. ‘That’s where all decent folk should be at this time of night.’
‘So?’ Pretorius’ long teeth gleamed wolfishly in the moonlight as he grinned at her discomfiture. ‘Nevertheless he will see me.’ And with a thrust of his hand he was past Minnie and in the hall.
Pretorius was right. Frankenstein knew him well. He was a Doctor of Philosophy who had been dismissed from his University for dabbling in Black Art.
He saw him at once. In the world of science in which he moved there were many less creditable persons with whom he had had to do business.
Pretorius came straight to the point. He knew all about Frankenstein’s monster and complimented him upon its creation. But, he added, he had also succeeded in producing Life – though by a vastly different method. If the Baron would accompany him he would be delighted to show him the results of his experiments.
‘What is behind all this?’ asked Frankenstein at last. It was plain that the doctor was wrestling with some secret excitement.
Pretorius’ lips parted in their wolfish grin.
‘Don’t you see?’ he said. ‘We must work together. Together we may reach a goal undreamed of.’
Again he urged him to accompany him back to his laboratory.
Feebly Frankenstein clung to his promise to Elizabeth.
‘No, I’m through with it all. I’m going away,’ he said.
His tone transformed the other.
Savagely Pretorius clutched him by the arm. The mask came off and he showed himself in his true colours as a threatening blackmailer.
‘Do you know that your monster is still at large?’ he challenged. ‘That it has already done two more murders since its resurrection?’
Frankenstein stared aghast, and the doctor went on:
‘Luckily, few apart from your wife and myself know that you are responsible for its existence. But there are penalties, I would remind you, for killing people. If I were to tell the law who made this roving instrument of death–’
Frankenstein paled and frowned.
‘Are you threatening me?’ he asked haughtily.
Again came that wolfish grin.
‘Ah, no! Don’t put it so crudely. Say rather that I am reminding you it were better that we work – together!’
For a moment there was silence, then Frankenstein rose to his feet and rang the bell. To the man who came he gave orders for his carriage to be made ready. Then he turned to Pretorius.
‘Damn you!’ he muttered. ‘I have no choice. Let us go.’ He soon found that the doctor had not exaggerated. He had produced Life as he had claimed, and in his laboratory were some half-dozen pigmy men and women – all living and imprisoned in flasks.
‘While you were digging in your graves,’ Pretorius explained, ‘and piecing together dead tissues – I went to the source of Life. I grew my creatures.’
‘They are perfect!’ exclaimed Frankenstein, scientifically enthusiastic in spite of himself. ‘But what a pity they are so small.’
Pretorius nodded encouragingly.
‘Ah, there I give you best. You did achieve size. But don’t you agree, my friend, that we should make an astonishing collaboration?’
For some tense moments love of science and love for his wife warred within Frankenstein’s breast. Pretorius guessed that the battle needed but one more thrust to turn the way he wanted.
‘Think,’ he whispered eagerly, ‘our dream is but half realised. Alone you have created a man – now, together we shall make him a mate.’
‘You mean–?’
Preto
rius nodded slowly.
‘Yes – a woman.’
The light of fanaticism gleamed in Frankenstein’s eyes.
Even as they were discussing this unholy partnership the Monster was stumbling over fields and pasture land. It was thirsty and famished.
Hitherto, Life had shown it only brutality, so that it lived by the code of Fear. If it could frighten, it had soon learned thatit could take what it wanted. If in its turn it could be made to fear – it fled.
Somehow the blood pumping through the long-dead tissues of its body was bringing back feeling to its nerves. Dully, like a clogged engine, its brain was learning to work – to think. Dimly it realised that it was an outcast – a horror to other men, for the meaning of stray remarks was permeating its befogged mind.
The sun rose over the hills, lighting the tree-tops with a golden sheen. The monster, weary, paused in its path. It needed drink. The sound of sheep bleating floated towards it, and it ambled slowly in the direction of the sound. There was blood in the bodies of sheep.
Suddenly, rounding a bend, it saw her – a woman-thing. She was standing on a rock by the side of a stream and about her her sheep were scattered. A stream! Water! The creature quickened its pace.
The shepherdess did not see the Monster until it was almost upon her. Her first intimation of its presence was the strange snarl which served it for speech. She turned – then, aghast at the horrid spectacle mowing and posturing before her, she screamed in abject terror and fainted dead away.
How could she tell that the queer noises it made was a pathetic attempt to reassure her?
Angrily the Monster bent over her. This faint was something it had not seen before. It did not understand it. It struck irritably at the innate girl .
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