You know, it’s a great tragedy that the literary version of the Monster wasn’t made by the film version of Frankenstein. They’re like incomplete halves that would perfectly complement each other.
The Monster in the book was an innocent blank slate with an immense mind, who was spurned by his horrified father and left to stew in misery and all the negative human experiences just because he was a little weird to look at.
Meanwhile movie Frankenstein was actually a caring creator to the creature, who was screwed over by the Monster having the brain of a violent criminal and his poor choice of lab assistants. It wasn’t until the Monster broke Fritz like a twig that he realized he had to put down his creation.
Imagine if the Monster in the book had that sort of mad scientist dad? Someone who would actually try to teach him speech and morals, uncaring about his ugliness and his odd behaviors. Someone who saw a shambling stitched-together corpse twitch and joyously screamed that it was alive, versus the byronic bitchboy who heard his creation make baby noises and decided to become a deadbeat dad?
The story of both Frankensteins would’ve been a lot happier in that case.