Terence Fisher’s 1957 horror classic “The Curse of Frankenstein” has returned to cinemas, proving its enduring power lies in sheer, unapologetic force. As a new, highly artistic adaptation of the Frankenstein myth prepares to debut, this Hammer Films production stands as a masterclass in genre efficiency, delivered with a macabre wit and relentless energy.
The film presents Victor Frankenstein not as a tragic visionary but as a figure of brilliant, cold ambition. Peter Cushing embodies the scientist with a chilling intellectual arrogance. Assisted by a reluctant colleague, played by Robert Urquhart, Frankenstein assembles a new being from stolen body parts, a gruesome process that involves an acid bath—a device whose horrific purpose becomes clear as the narrative unfolds.
The creature, brought to life by Christopher Lee, is no sympathetic soul. It is a violent, lumbering force of nature. The plot cleverly forces Frankenstein into a murderous scheme to acquire a superior brain, a plan executed with a shocking stunt that remains effective. Further defying convention, this Victor Frankenstein is no nobleman; he is entangled in a web of deceit, betraying his devoted fiancée with a conniving maid, with both women facing grim consequences.
Told at a brisk 83 minutes, the film moves with a purpose that modern epics often lack. It is utterly serious in its execution, its conviction selling the melodrama. The film’s visual design, including a distinctive electrical apparatus, feels influential, hinting at sci-fi aesthetics to come.
Stripped of pretension and moralizing, “The Curse of Frankenstein” crackles with a raw, cinematic power that has not dimmed. It is a stark reminder that horror, at its best, needs no justification beyond its own thrilling execution.
