Part of the reason why Mary Shelley's Frankenstein has been such a goldmine for film-makers over the years is, perversely, its unfilmability. Its Monster is not a Monster because he's ugly, he's a Monster because of the unnatural circumstances of his birth, and he has a heavy interior monologue dedicated to thrashing this status out. That's not natural cinematic material, and there are other challenges in Shelley's book. Shelley leaves the reader's imagination to fill in the apparatus which brings the Monster to life, turning the book's pivotal set piece into a blank cheque for visually oriented directors.
In J. Searle Dawley's 1910 short, the Monster is brought to life in a kind of Satanic hot tub, where putrefying flesh…