If you want to follow the class en masse, I created a Twitter list of our course members:

https://twitter.com/#!/Literature_Geek/technoro/members

Note that it’s currently not possible to add yourself to your own list, so my handle (@Literature_Geek) isn’t included in the list.

When I was watching Bride of Frankenstein tonight, I was intrigued by the monster’s repeated gesture of supplication (pictured below).

In class we briefly touched on how Karloff intentionally mimicked a toddler in his walk, and his uplifted, outstretched arms seem to communicate in much the same way as a nonverbal child, signifying a variety of phrases from “No, wait, let me explain,” to a simple “I want that.” However, I was initially curious about whether Karloff had integrated any actual sign language into his gesturing; when I searched around, I didn’t find any evidence of such fusing, but I did stumble onto an interesting article titled, “Rise of the Apes: of man, monkey and monster.”

Many are familiar with the name Andy Serkis and the intense lobbying for more Academy recognition of his CGI work (most notably Gollum in Lord of the Rings and more recently, Caesar in Rise of the Planet of the Apes). The reason this article popped up in my search for “Boris Karloff monster sign language” is mostly this quote:

[Serkis'] Caesar is as poignant a creation as Karloff’s monster in Frankenstein, a misunderstood and ill-used creature that puts its tragedy on display through body language.

I think it’s incredibly ironic that Shelley’s monster, as portrayed by Karloff, is the basis of comparison for a computer-generated character in a modern day science-fiction movie. Especially in the sense of them both being “ill-used.” Beyond the violence of the villagers, the monster is indeed misused by Dr. Pretorius, who sort of weaponizes him in order to coerce Frankenstein into creating a female counterpart. He uses his physical force as a threat, then charges him with the task of kidnapping Elizabeth. This weaponization of Frankenstein’s creation is definitely a new concept, one only made possible by the addition of a non-sympathetic scientific outsider and a decrease in the monster’s own powers of self-realization and articulation. It seems that such adjustments to the story reflect a twist on the typical Neo-Luddite take, but I’ll stop before I infringe on the Bride of Frankenstein group’s territory! Just wanted to share the article and its interesting connections with Shelley’s monster.

A friend of mine posted the following to Facebook: “It’s Frankenstein day today, where I stitch together the bits of a new draft and see if it’s alive.” The metaphor describes how many people write stories—in bits and pieces, then later stitching them together. Something magical either happens, or doesn’t happen, to make these pieces, once stitched, feel like a story. (Of course, I am simplifying. There’s more work to it than that.) I believe a similar process occurs in the production of those scenes and images, before they are ever ready to be stitched together. However, that stitching often happens in a way that is harder to understand.

It reminds me of Mary Shelley’s waking dream. There’s so much skepticism surrounding it. Yet, she got it just right; she has described exactly how it feels, to me, to begin a story.

My imagination, unbidden, possessed and guided me, gifting the successive images that arose in my mind with a vividness far beyond the usual bounds of reverie. I saw—with shut eyes, but acute mental vision—I saw the pale student of unhallowed arts kneeling beside the thing he had put together…. The idea so possessed my mind, that a thrill of fear ran through me…. Swift as light and cheering was the idea that broke in upon me. ‘I have found it!’ (196)

That’s the way it feels to write a story—at least for some writers. You feed your brain. You read lots of books. You have intelligent conversations. You pay attention to the world around you. Then your subconscious pieces it all together and presents you with an image or a scene or a “waking dream.” You take that dream and you write it down. Then you analyze it, try to figure out what it means, go back in, and fill in the holes. Later, you’ll do a little more stitching, when you link it to other scenes, images, and waking dreams that your brain has mysteriously conjured up for you.

Shelley’s description of the dream does not negate or deny any of the other research she did for the novel—either the reading and general exposure to ideas she had before she started it, or any intentional manipulation she did after the draft was on its way. In fact, the dream happened because of the way she fed her mind.  And, of course, early influences and later editing are crucial to the novel. However, that dream can still feel like the defining moment of creating a story. It’s the exciting part. It’s the moment the story comes “alive”! Shelley very likely has an agenda in presenting the story’s genesis the way she does, but that doesn’t prove that her description is inaccurate. Literary scholars’ frequent skepticism regarding Mary Shelley’s dream seems somewhat misguided to me. But the fact that they are concerned about the story’s genesis at all (any story’s genesis, really) is quite revelatory; it parallels Victor Frankenstein’s quest.

That type of quest, in which an individual plays god by molding a creature and setting it, somehow, to life, is not unique to Frankenstein. One ancient example is that of the golem, from Jewish folklore. These monsters are not animated by technology or alchemy, but through prayer or incantation. Other similar examples are haunted dolls—animated by ghosts or evil spirits. And horror tales of re-animated dead, for example, abound. Human beings, it seems, have not required Frankenstein’s “science” (whether it be pseudo- or actual) to speculate about and caution against, playing God. Modern technology, however–computers especially–have given the old tales new “life.” Cylons, cyborgs, evil robots, the matrix—the list is long and varied and I’m not geek enough (yet) to do it justice.

Scholars debate the source of the creature’s “life” in Frankenstein. Is it science or alchemy? Technology or something closer to mysticism? Mary Shelley’s novel doesn’t explain precisely how the animation works; Victor is tight-lipped. Movie versions speculate according to their own agendas. There’s a ray beyond ultraviolet! Amniotic fluid! Lightning!

Mary Shelley’s waking dream draws all of these questions of life’s genesis together for me, and shows me how much they are related. That debate over whether it is technology or alchemy that animates Frankenstein is a telling one, just like the controversy over how Mary Shelley generated her ideas, just like the mystery of bringing any story to life. So the mystery of the spark of life, of what it is that animates, is very similar to the mystery of writing stories and novels. It happens. Stories come alive. But how? What, precisely, has made the novel’s monster live? And what makes the novel itself live in the public’s imagination? What draws us to keep asking? It seems to me this question has a lot to do with the interest in how Mary Shelley wrote her book, about what animated it—was it a waking dream or careful research and planning? But why is it so important? Is it because the scholars are also searching for that animating principle? In life? In fiction? Victor’s quest for the elixir of life is like our quest to understand how he did it in the book and is also like our quest to understand where the very spark of an idea for the story came from. Are we all trying to play god?

One of the most curious aspects of our “troubled” view of technology is the multiplicity of ways in which we choose to deal with our concerns. Most obviously in cinema, we see films such as Terminator in which a cyborg that looks exactly like a human tyrannizes Sarah Connor and murders people left and right. The Terminator, of course, represents the future of technology where humans are on the run from their own creations. Our feelings toward technology are ones of regret. We crossed a line somewhere along the way and inadvertently heralded in our own destruction. On the other side of the coin, we see films such as Blade Runner where replicants that look, feel, and bleed just like other humans are enslaved by humans and hunted down when they go rogue. Rick Deckard ultimately comes to the conclusion that some replicants, (ex. Rachael) are worth saving. We are also left wondering whether or not Deckard himself is a replicant. Why this great disparity between points of view? In one instance, we see ourselves making technology the Other. It is something that must be contained and conquered in order for us to stay on top. It threatens to take us over. On the other hand, we see technology become abjected—the replicants are both human and not human—making us wonder: what does it mean to be human? The replicants are a threat to society, but we are meant to see this perspective as unjust. We feel pity for Roy Batty when he communicates the fate of his existence as a living, breathing entity that can think, feel, and experience life, but who was enslaved and asked to do terrible things. Was it merely the fact of his creation that made him inhuman? Ultimately these stories become reflexive, causing us to look back at ourselves and how we define ourselves as humans and how we define technology.

Frankenstein contains aspects of both of these types of films. This book is not simply a horror story warning people about the dangers of technological advancements, it is a reflection on the way we define monstrosity. Although Victor believes his creation to be a daemon from the instance he sees its eye move, he is making a definitive claim based on the process by which he brought the monster into being and his physical appearance. It is not the wretch that is implicitly monstrous, it is the actions of Victor who irresponsibly pieced him together, brought him to life, and abandoned him, failing to take responsibility for his actions, that are monstrous. In this way, the monster represents Frankenstein’s abject fears. The daemon embodies what he sees to be himself and the work of his own hands and what he clearly wants to see as something that is definitively Other, not him that he can conquer. The wretch necessarily becomes a monster because, for Frankenstein; the creature embodies his own ties to monstrosity and must be conquered. Thus, he labels the creature based on his own need to make the wretch his Other.

When Justine describes the murderer of William, she labels him a “monster” and “the devil himself” (66). In this, she is not referring to a man with a horrible deformity; rather she is basing these judgments on the action committed. The wretch himself only becomes truly monstrous once he has committed deeds that go against the grain of humanity. When the wretch realizes that Frankenstein will not make him a companion, he gives himself over to revenge much like any human would when faced with such circumstances. At the end of the tale, he describes his monstrous actions as a choice: “Evil thenceforth became my good. Urged thus far, I had no choice but to adapt my nature to an element which I had willingly chosen” (188). We see from his narrative that the wretch is initially gentle. He does not even kill animals for food until provoked by Frankenstein’s insensitivity and refusal to understand. Victor constantly runs away from the thing he has created because it is a reminder of his own monstrous deeds in creating an ugly being unfit for society. The wretch has high aspirations, longing to abide by the laws of virtue, but he is denied the ability to overcome his label as a monster due to his unconformity. Appearance prevents his becoming like Rachael and condemns him to act like the Terminator.

As a result, Frankenstein exposes two aspects of how we term monstrosity: 1) a perversion, physical nonconformity and 2) a decision to engage in actions that go against the grain of appropriate societal behavior, active nonconformity. Haunted by the first, the wretch is forced to engage in the latter. This, in turn, causes us to reflect back on the man who made the monster and recognize his own participation in monstrous behavior in abandoning his creation and running away from his responsibility until no one is left but Ernest. We feel sympathy for Frankenstein’s monster because he was abandoned and left to his own devices. He tried to be good, but was met with repulsion by society. The deeds he commits are clearly terrible, but they can be seen also as a cry for help from one who has been denied the ability to demonstrate his ability to function appropriately within society, and thereby save himself from being deemed a monster.

If a Neo-Luddite would term Frankenstein a cautionary tale, a warning to those whose “hubris” (as Dan termed it) in developing artificial intelligence blinds them to its in inherent dangers, then what would they think of such problematic fiction as Asimov’s I, Robot or Disney’s WALL-E?

Both stories share a similar plot line: man invents machines, machines pose threat to man, a dissident machine rises up, saves man, and restores ‘natural order.’ Another parallel emerges in that both the machines of I, Robot and WALL-E receive programming from their human operators stating their primary function as human preservation and service (Asimov’s Three Laws of Robotics and the directives given to various robots in WALL-E).

In I, Robot the super-computer V.I.K.I. ultimately identifies the most dangerous threat to humanity as people themselves. Logically, then, human beings must be severely limited and monitored for their own protection, resulting in robots ruling with iron fists. Though a rather frightening realization of Brautigan’s machines of loving grace, the androids of I, Robot really do have humanity’s best interest at heart. Likewise in WALL-E, the navigational component AUTO is following an outdated directive to avoid returning to earth, as it is supposedly unable to support human life. Hence he attempts to bar the ship’s captain from steering humanity home.

Though human beings do revolt in both stories, in true Neo-Luddite fashion, their feeble attempts are almost comical. The baseball-bat-swinging Chicagoan mob of I, Robot puts up a much better fight than the corpulent hover-chair-dwellers of WALL-E, but in both cases a cybernetic savior is needed. However, these cybernetic saviors’ ability to triumph rests in their distinctly human-like qualities. An unlikely hero, the plucky WALL-E saves the day by exhibiting one of the most laudable traits of self-sacrifice, a characteristic developed in earlier moments in the film when WALL-E expresses one of the basest of human desires in his longing for companionship, more specifically, the love of Eve. In his ability to love, WALL-E recognizes the worth of the greater good and willingly sacrifices himself for it. I, Robot’s much more complex hero, the android Sonny, also displays a broad spectrum of emotions throughout the film – anger, sadness, even conspiratorial trust. He is differentiated from homogeneous swarms of his hostile brethren by the fact that he is not only programmed with the Three Laws, but he has been endowed with the ability to choose to ignore them. Sonny’s creator, Dr. Lanning, endowed Sonny with reason and free will (two emphatically human rights), coupled with his ability to dream (which begs the question: Can a robot not only achieve the semblance of cognizance, but also delve into the subconscious?). Sonny is also given a predestined purpose, which manifests itself in his ability to defeat the rampaging V.I.K.I. through yet another show of willing self-sacrifice. When V.I.K.I. attempts to dissuade Sonny from his intent, questioning, “Do you not see the logic of my plan?” he thoughtfully replies, “Yes, but it just seems too heartless.”

Both stories are problematic in their depictions of human-robot amalgamations. The stories’ villains are humanized (they are given names and voices), while the heroes go even further and present as manifestations of humans themselves. But really, can threatening technology be neutralized by technology that is more empathetic, more human? Taking into account that both cases, like the Morris worm, contain human error at their cores (V.I.K.I.’s logical conclusion was an inevitable result of her programming, and AUTO’s directive was straight from the mouths of humans), is it really a technological battle at all? I mean, what kind of battle is it where a human-created robot, operating on human-generated parameters, infringes on human rights and is subsequently destroyed by an altered, yet still human-created, robot, also operating on human-generated parameters? It almost seems to be a gigantic battle game – will love triumph over logic, does self-sacrifice trump self-destruction? – with the all-too-human warfare of vices and virtues played out on a grander technological stage.

While reading through Jones’ chapter on Frankenstein, I was particularly drawn to the section’s discussion on Victor’s laboratory and his relationship with science in general. I immediately grabbed the novel and found my comments scribbled beside the text, specifically the scene of Frankenstein’s monster’s creation: “vague description,” “so I guess electricity is involved somehow?” and “is this even science?”

For a novel that supposedly pioneered an entire genre, aptly named science fiction, there is very little science to be found in Frankenstein. Jones notes that this choice was made either because Shelley did not know how to describe the science involved, or to express “that technology is not the point of the story” (Jones, 19). The scene itself utilizes vague terms such as “materials,” “the instruments of life,” and the repetition of the word, “secret” (Shelley, 35-38). Jones argues that the scene’s description resembles alchemy, painting Frankenstein as an alchemist or mage. Moreover, in his studies, Frankenstein claims to be more interested in the ancient scientists, who dream big (and promise “impossibilities” such as alchemy and immortality), than the “modern masters [who] promise very little” (Shelley, 30). All of this discussion links Frankenstein with figures such as Faust and Prospero as well as Prometheus. So in a way, Frankenstein is, or wants to be, a magician.

“And now for something completely different,” as the folks of Monty Python would say. I want to bring in the genre of fantasy by turning to Ursula Le Guin’s A Wizard of Earthsea. Le Guin is a major science fiction author (no doubt influenced by Mary Shelley), but this novel is one of her forays into fantasy. The novel follows a young wizard named Ged who, after accidentally conjuring a monster or shadow creature in his youth, spends the next stage of his life faced with a number of obstacles while simultaneously avoiding the dark entity he had himself created.

Sound familiar? Despite being rooted in fantasy, Earthsea and its structure resemble Frankenstein. In an act of hubris, each protagonist plays god and creates (whether purposely or accidentally) a monstrous entity that never should have existed. Just as Frankenstein spends the better part of the novel trying to “live his life” while his monster destroys everyone around him, so too does Ged (although he does save his fair share of people). Their turning points even resemble one another. After returning home, Ged reunites with his teacher, who convinces him to pursue his shadow, and suddenly the tables are turned. Frankenstein is not so decisive or confident, but his moment of clarity comes after Elizabeth’s death (or, to a lesser extent, Clerval’s), in which he vows to pursue the monster until one kills the other. Ged is successful in the end, Frankenstein far less so, but one can see the resemblance.

Other parallels exist (Walton even has a counterpart in Earthsea), but I won’t go into them. There are plenty of differences, of course, in content as well as tone and theme. Shelley’s novel humanizes the monster, while for the most part Ged’s shadow remains an abstraction. More importantly, Earthsea is about learning to face your greatest fear (for Ged is able to defeat his shadow in the end, albeit by merging with it), while Frankenstein is more of a cautionary tale.

But despite these differences, Le Guin owes a great debt to Shelley. The point I am trying to make actually ties in perfectly with the reading. If “technology is not the main point of the story,” as Jones argues, then surely one can replace the novel’s science with another force without damaging the story in the slightest. I argue that despite their differences, Le Guin’s novel is an exercise in this viewpoint. Science or magic, both tales follow similar structures and share important themes. With this in mind, arguing that Frankenstein is wholehearted “anti-science” would be akin to arguing that A Wizard of Earthsea is “anti-magic.” The lesson here is not in technology, but in hubris, responsibility, imagination, creation, and a million other abstract terms I will not list here.

In a way, then, with its references to magic and alchemy, Frankenstein helped establish not one genre, but two: science fiction as well as fantasy. Not too shabby.