Mary Shelly got the shaft,
historically speaking. A smart, literate, talented writer and editor, on top of
being the only woman in her peer group, and what is she best remembered for?
Only the first science fiction novel, ever, and when it’s mentioned, trust me,
it’s with much grousing and grumbling and caveats from the science fiction
community.
Of course, I’m talking about Frankenstein:
or, the Modern Prometheus, a decent piece of Victorian melodrama, written
in 1818, that inadvertently grapples with the concept of the soul, what makes
us human, and asks the question of whether or not science should meddle with
the forces of nature. Heavy stuff for back in those days, don’tcha know. But
those hard SF guys, the graybeards, over in the corner, will shake their heads,
and say, “Well, sure, some of the ideas are there, but
really...”
How do you top that kind of
back-handed compliment, I wonder? Oh, I’ve got it! Make a movie out of an
extremely successful stage play and overwrite all of the conceits and concepts
of the novel into its most reductive form, and turn a brilliant allegory into a
grotesque caricature that is parodied and copied ad infinitum, well
into the 21st century. Talk about “No Respect.”
