“Ah, thanks,” he said. “You don’t happen to have a match, do ya?” The bat picked up the cigar and stuck it in his mouth. I checked the two-way radio and felt my head again. Still nope.

“I’m Wally,” he said.

“Wally...the bat,” I mouthed without a sound. I stood looking at him. He looked up at me. “We don’t allow smoking in the mansion,” I finally said.

“Yeah, it’s wet anyway, and you stepped on it.” He folded his wings, then flicked them open, sending droplets of water everywhere. “Sorry. Say, this is the most cluttered attic I’ve ever been in.”

We stood looking at each other for a little while.

“Is that an English accent?” I asked. I never had bat hallucinations speaking with English accents before.

“Must have come from my hanging out at Oxford.” He flicked his wings again, then folded them and puckered his lips as if he were whistling.

My mind began to wander as we stood in silence; I, understandably, at a
loss for words, and Wally the bat looking at his wet, flat cigar. Yes, indeed, it was a night for Frankenstein. My thoughts meandered to English accents, lightning storms, and monsters and their brides... 

While our dull yellow eyes may no longer be shocked or horrified by James Whale’s Frankenstein, we are still thrilled by it. Perhaps it’s the Gothic-expressionism in its scenes alternating between light and dark, or perhaps it’s the funereal sounds, the crackling electrical arcs from infernal machines, and the thundering stormy nights that keep us coming back for more? Then again, perhaps it’s the scintillating, fast-paced story, filled with luridly atmospheric, yet poetic imagery, and vivid, archetypal characters skillfully caught in the camera’s eye? Whatever the reasons, one thing is certain: Frankenstein solidified Universal Studios’ unique look of horror that began with Dracula, and threw open theater doors everywhere to more monsters and madmen than you could shake a flaming torch at.

Mischief and madness are afoot in the little sleepy town of Goldstadt, somewhere in Europe. Or is it Europe? Both locale and time period are unclear. English accents mix with American ones, and architectural styles mingle haphazardly. But one thing is certain, or should we say two? During a late-night funeral service, two odd-looking men patiently wait behind a wrought iron fence, just out of sight. Like little school boys ready to play a nasty prank, they can barely contain their impatience until the last clump of earth is tossed with a heavy thud onto the coffin-lid. As the gravedigger leaves, they rush to the newly turned earth to retrieve the fresh corpse. Under the watchful eye of the Grim Reaper statue tilting behind them, Henry Frankenstein (Colin Clive) and Fritz (Dwight Frye), his hunch-backed, wild-eyed and unkempt assistant, gleefully cart their prize away.