"So... how are those lessons going at the Witchfinders School of Cauldronic Arts?" asked Zombos.
"Never mind, dear," said Zimba. "No harm done." Zombos was about to say something more but Zimba gave him the stare of Medusa and he kept quiet. "Why don't you all go into the drawing room while I have Chef Machiavelli put more frosting on the cake and make coffee."
We obediently headed to the drawing room. Lightning still flashed now and then across the large windowpanes, and streams of water still poured, pell-mell, across the glass. The roaring fire on the grate sent warmth into us as we lounged in front of it. Thoughts of blazing torches held high by disgruntled villagers, a quintessential image in many Universal horror films, filled my mind.
Lightning and rain play an important part in all of the Frankenstein films also. It took four years after Frankenstein to make the demanding monster a mate in Bride of Frankenstein, and another four years for Wolf Von Frankenstein to take on his father's less than stellar habits in Son of Frankenstein. Boris Karloff returns as the monster, but, except for his patent snarls and growls, plays a lesser role to become sidekick to Bela Lugosi's virtuoso performance as the equally undying Ygor. Finally, the undead and undying monster has found a kindred spirit, although an evil one at that. With Basil Rathbone and Lionel Atwill playing to the rafters, and Lugosi taking center stage this time around, poor Karloff didn't stand a ghost of a chance. But it's not only the role of the monster that changed; Son of Frankenstein stands as the bridge between the melancholia and mania of Whale's artful Gothic night sweats, and the slicked-up, front office-controlled, shadow show budget package of Universal's monsters for a new decade beleaguered by the real terrors of war.
The placeless quality of this Grimm's fairy tale-like universe is still here. The train that Baron Wolf Von Frankenstein and his family travel in, to the cursed village of his father, seems modern enough. That modernity dissipates, however, as soon as he steps off the train, much like the villagers who, huddling under a sea of black umbrellas in the pouring rain to glimpse the face of their tragedy, dissolve away as he stumbles across ill-chosen words of praise for his father. Receiving a brusque welcome by the town council, his father's chest of papers is dumped into his hands. Only Inspector Krogh is somewhat cordial. He realizes the danger Wolf Von Frankenstein is in — the intoxicating power of dabbling in forbidden science that plagues the family. Driving up to the family's medieval estate, a skulking Ygor is briefly seen in a flash of headlights as the motor car pulls up to the front door, a portent of bad things to come.
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