Steampunk: Frankenstein by Mary Shelley; ill. by Zdenko Basic and Manuel Sumberac
Running Press $34.99
Goggles, goggles and more goggles ... when what I really wanted was earplugs. Which isn't to say the idea here lacks merit - who doesn't like a bit of steampunked goth in their classics every now and then? - but heavens, isn't Frankenstein a whining little bugger?
I guess the crux of the thing is that everything I know about the shiftless doctor and his creation came via Boris Karloff and Gene Wilder. So, until now my mental images featured bolted-on heads, Tesla coils, pitchforks, and "IT'S ALIVE," not some nonce whittering on endlessly about how it's not his fault as his nearest and dearest are throttled or - quite possibly - fretted into early graves.
I mean, he makes this thing, right? Then he decides it might not be his best work and goes to bed, hoping it'll be all right in the morning.
So, if you're not cheering for the monster by the end then I don't think you've been paying any attention. And is anyone else queasy about Frankenstein snr spending years trying to manipulate a sexual relationship between his son and adopted daughter?