American Monsters: Chapter 3

She's alive. She's ALIVE.

In the 1930’s, it was common for Hollywood’s trade magazines to describe a debut starlet as being “made for showbiz.” This typically conveyed that the young actress had natural beauty, talent and charisma. But in the case of Eve Frankenstein, the expression meant something different.

After the success of Universal’s Phantom, Hunchback and Count along with the meteoric rise of their newest star, Adam Frankenstein, the studio began to kick around the idea of making their first “in-house” monster. Rather than contract another stately ghoul from Europe, they could build one from scratch. And the moviegoing public wanted it to be a woman.

In a 1932 edition of Photoplay, readers were asked which monster most deserved a mate. The response was immediate, overwhelming and unanimous: Frankenstein’s Monster was to be married.

After acquiring the original surgical notes of Dr. Victor Frankenstein from a remote medical library in Ingolstadt, studio officials began culling Los Angeles morgues for the corpses of recently deceased ingenues who were still under contract.

A dancer from Chicago who’d succumbed to influenza provided the legs.

A Parisian model reclaimed from the sea after drowning in the rip current off Huntington Beach had the perfect torso.

And a classically trained British actress with a chronic heart condition caught the eye of a mortician in Burbank who contacted Universal’s casting department to let them know he’d found the face of their next star.

Picking which brain to use was a trickier discussion. Some executives wanted it to be sourced from an older more established actress for marketing purposes. Others advocated for a national contest in which women from coast to coast could pitch themselves as the donor.

But fate intervened when a promising young singer from New York named Betty Mintz suffered a fatal allergic reaction to setting powder on her first day shooting Manhattan Parade. MGM offered Universal her brain for a price so low that the thrifty studio simply couldn’t refuse.

Esteemed cardiologists, neurologists and plastic surgeons from the greater LA basin flocked to Universal City to be considered for the surgical team while a crew of teamsters and gaffers got to work assembling the electrical equipment needed to give her the spark of life. After months of preparation, a rare but conveniently-timed lightning storm rolled in. And that night…Eve was born.

Unlike her more glamorous screen awakening, the moment electricity surged through her veins, The “Bride of Frankenstein” shot straight up and sputtered a stream of vomit across the operating room. Studio photographers, there to capture her first moments, quietly put their cameras down, realizing this was not the image they were hired to immortalize.

Universal kept her first few weeks of existence quiet until they were sure she was ready for the press to meet her. This move proved to be prudent as throughout that time, Eve was proved to be more disoriented, volatile and incredibly strong than expected.

Adam was eager to meet his betrothed, and hoped that since he had also experienced the turbulence of second-life, he could be of some comfort to her. The first trial meeting between the two went disastrously, with the would-be groom’s arm ending up ripped from his shoulder by the reluctant Bride.

When Eve thought back to those times, it all seemed like she was recalling a bad dream. Not knowing who she was, where she was, or how she’d come to be. She’d only known that she felt wrong.

That was nearly 20 years ago. Since then she’d been married and separated. She’d made her film debut. Become an instant cinematic icon. Joined the ranks of Davis and Garbo in challenging the studio system. Most importantly, she’d fought to have the sort of acting career that she wanted. And she won.

For the past few years, Eve had been traveling the world with her musical act. Just the Bride, a microphone, a 30 piece band and seven costume changes. She’d gotten raves in London, Paris, Dublin, Sydney, Vegas and Philadelphia but now, she was back “home” in New York City, halfway through a sensational 19 week run at The Palace.

On opening night, Adam had sent 1000 lilies, her favorite flower. The accompanying note, written in his clumsy handwriting read, “You good. You talented. I happy for you.” She couldn’t help but smile. It had always made her laugh when he used the voice.

Despite herself, despite everything, Eve still loved him. It’s why she couldn’t bear to file for divorce. Part of her thought they’d have stood a better chance of making it if only she hadn’t known she was built for him. But the truth was, with Frankenstein’s Monster by her side, the public could only see her as his bride. On her own, she could be The Bride. Breaking box office records, performing to crowds screaming for her talent, instead of her trademark hairdo and hiss.

It might’ve been easier if Adam had been angry or resentful about her success. But he only ever cheered her on from afar. Graciously handling press questions about why they hadn’t appeared publicly together in so long, calling her now and then to make sure she was taking care of herself and getting paid what she deserved.

The last time they’d spoke, Eve remembered thinking he sounded distracted or worried, somehow. She wondered what on earth could ever worry an undying monster…except fire of course. He hated fire.

It wasn’t until after her most recent matinee, when she’d been intercepted by two FBI agents at the stage door, that she feared the worst. Her husband was alive and well they told her. But he was in trouble. And she’d need to come with them.

As she sat in the backseat of the agents’ car, winding through the streets of midtown, Eve couldn’t make sense of it. Adam wasn’t a Communist. And he certainly wasn’t a Russian Asset. He was a blue-blooded American through and through. They’d attended both Truman Inaugurations together, for heaven’s sake. Maybe he’d attended some meetings back in the 30’s, but didn’t everyone?

As they stopped in front of a ritzy high rise on Second Avenue, Eve watched as the agents approached a familiar mummy on the sidewalk, wearing expensive loafers. Before being escorted into the car, she locked eyes with him and they each gave a polite nod.

The door opened and Ambassador Bey gave a slight but elegant bow. “Mrs. Frankenstein, I presume?” he asked dryly.

“How are you, Imhotep?”

With a groan he took the seat next to her. Without a word, the agents closed the passenger door and their trip began.

“I had tickets to the ballet,” Imhotep sighed, fiddling with a bandage around his wrist, “and I don’t suppose this will be a short trip.”

“Why do you say that?” Eve asked. It had never occurred to her that she’d need to cancel tonight’s show.

“Because,” the mummy returned quietly “the license plate for this car is registered to Washington DC.”

“From this point forward, no more talking,” one of the agents said.

Eve must’ve looked concerned because Imhotep gently placed his gauzy hand on hers as if to say “Don’t worry.”

She smiled back weakly. She was worried.

Because while her husband was assuredly not a communist, Eve most certainly was.