As a kid between the ages of 10 and 16, I was a fan of old-school monster movies and novels.
The Frankenstein monster appealed to me a lot. He never asked to be brought to life, and his innocence became stained as he came into increasing contact with mankind. In the original novel, he spoke like an angel, an idealist, probably expressing the ideals of his young creator, Mary Shelley. The 1931 Universal horror movie made him mostly mute and a victim of his outer ugliness, instead of driven by an inner sense of beauty or ideals. Regardless of the medium or the version portrayed, I saw the Frankenstein monster as a victim of circumstances beyond is control.
Count Dracula was a smooth manipulator and a sociopath, manipulating others to fulfill his own needs with no thought for the eternal hell in which he was trapping his victims. He was a blood junkie, ceaselessly killing for his next fix. Dracula was a true villian, sacrificing others for his own fulfillment. Bram Stoker’s novel didn’t engage me, but the character portrayed by Bela Lugosi was extremely compelling and psychologically menacing.
Doctor Jekyll was the symbol for mood disorders and split personalities. He was bipolar-ism and mood swings taken to extreme levels. The good doctor was the genteel, daytime persona that society expected and accepted. My Hyde was the violent, clawing, lying persona that would occasionally erupt after dark, to wreak havoc.
H.G. Well’s novel “The Invisible Man” was another study in hiding one’s illness from society (in this case, murderous impulses and a burgeoning insanity). His invisibility was somewhat portrayed as an affliction or a curse, exploited as an advantage by its user, and seen as a horror by others.
All these characters were probably symbols of Victorian-era fears and insecurities, brought out in strong relief. But they were modern fears too. I began to understand why those stories and movies appealed to me when I looked around me in my home and in the world.
None of us ever asks to be born, and if life is scary or chilling enough and relief seems hopeless, then we may wish that we never were born at all. The contradictions of values and the hypocracies around us may make us question how much others really value their own lives.
In my worry and self-pity growing up with my alcoholic and depressed parents, I witnessed their violence and sadness and sometimes wished that I could be somewhere else or even not alive at all. I’m certain that my mother felt that way more than a few times in her life.
In my father’s use of fear and his temper, and his absolutist approach to obedience, I saw narcissism and manipulation. Every villain considers themselves the hero in their own story, but what about the victims of their actions? Where is forgiveness and redemption without responsibility?
Jekyll and Hyde were to me, straight-up symbols for manic-depression, which we now call bipolar disorder. My mother had that, and we witnessed a manic episode now and then as we grew up, and especially long periods of debilitating depression. She self-medicated her way through all of it with lots of alcohol. For her, eventually, balance was abandoned.
I wanted to like and sympathize with the victims in the horror novels I read and the movies I watched, because I felt I was a victim of things beyond my control too. I wanted someone to have compassion for me, but for that to happen, I’d have to open up about things, and that was not allowed in my family. Growing up, the most important thing to do was to keep quiet and not draw attention to yourself. I didn’t tell my friends much about the things that happened in our home, but they’d hear about some of it buzzing around the neighbourhood. Our next-door neighbours always knew when someone in my house was yelling, or if the cops had to come to give my parents a warning, or if an ambulance arrived.
Horror in novels and old monster movies was a much safer way to escape.
