EVERYBODY DANCE.
EVERYBODY SING.
EVERYBODY MOVE.
EVERYBODY SCREAM.
Tis the year of the Frankenstein movies, and I am NOT complaining.
Mary Shelley didn't just write a novel; she dished up the prototype of modern anxiety. She gave a name and form to that very human terror of what happens when our ambition outstrips our ethics, and when our creation ceases to belong to us.
It's incredible how, two centuries later, that "vital spark" she imagined continues to reignite in every corner of pop culture.
Mary Shelley gave us the mirror in which we reflect our sins. As long as man tries to play God, or as long as there is someone who feels "outside the box" (just like Gyllenhaal's Bride), we will need her to give meaning to our feeling of fragmentation.
We are all a little made of other people's pieces, stitched together by life and searching for someone who isn't frightened by our disfigured soul.
