The Byronic hero is ubiquitous in modern media; the average consumer of entertainment is well-acquainted with him whether or not they know him by name. He is intelligent, brooding, sometimes tortured, often arrogant, and always fiercely independent in both temperament and morals. These characteristics certainly describe Victor Frankenstein of the titular novel by Mary Shelley, perhaps the most well-known literary example of a Byronic hero not directly based on or created by George Gordon Byron himself. In fact, independence of thought and perception is precisely what the character demonstrates most powerfully of all. A system of ethics independent of the cultural narrative must necessarily be formed, at least to some degree, as a result of subjective experience, and subjective experience is indeed what Victor repeatedly makes reference to when attempting to explain actions he assumes Walton will find shocking and perhaps even immoral. It is this emphasis that is resurrected in nearly every modern interpretation of the Frankenstein meme, itself an alarmingly common vehicle to explore the Byronic hero.
In the following pages, my aim is to explore subjectivity as it is laid out in Frankenstein before moving on to delineate modern revivals of its story and themes and explicate both what they have in common and what they do differently from the original. It would naturally be impossible to do a complete survey of such works on account of their existing in such staggering numbers. Therefore, I have selected two works besides the original novel to focus on. The first, The Rocky Horror Picture Show, is a horror-comedy movie adapted directly from a stage musical that directly references and parodies Frankenstein by including a villainous figure, Dr. Frank N. Furter, who brings life to his own creature for selfish purposes. The second, Saya no Uta (lit. Song of Saya) is a work in the visual novel genre written by Gen Urobuchi. Unlike The Rocky Horror Picture Show, it contains no direct references to Mary Shelley’s 1818 novel, but rather shares many shocking thematic similarities that I will explore in further detail. These two works are diverse in origin, format, genre, and tone, but both of them exemplify Byronic subjectivity in a way that clearly hearkens back to Frankenstein.
Simultaneously, both works are to some degree aware that they are dealing with Romantic themes, but also that they are far removed in time and space from their original expression. They are therefore decidedly more aggressive about laying bare the disturbingly subjective foundations upon which the Byronic existence rests upon. The ideal result in both cases is an audience that is uncomfortably aware that they are being manipulated and at the same time sympathizing with their manipulator. In this way, these modern incarnations of the Frankenstein meme comment on its existence while honing its appeal to a fine point – the concept of an individual who allures as he horrifies, who indeed allures by horrifying.
Of course, before any further discussion can continue the “Frankenstein meme” must itself be defined. This is a more complex task than might be expected, owing to the fact that the themes of Frankenstein have seeped so thoroughly into Western cultural consciousness that it is difficult to parse with any level of accuracy what is a legitimate example of the Frankenstein meme and what merely shares superficial similarities. The definition I posit here is by no means authoritative or final. Nevertheless, I have designed it to be as specific as it can be while allowing for artistic differences so as to not limit the conversation.
First, examples of the Frankenstein meme involve, at their center, a Byronic figure. He may be portrayed as hero, villain, or neither, but he must be present within the narrative and acting as a driving force for its events. This is required because, naturally, there is no subjectivity of experience to explore unless the character exhibits Byronic qualities in the first place; he must divest himself of the larger culture’s notions of acceptability if he is to survive his encounter with the sublime.
This is part of the second requirement. The Byronic figure, or the protagonist if they are not one in the same, must weather some sort of inexplicable, terrible, wonderful experience, the kind that Edmund Burke so famously attempted to define. That the experience merely happens, however, is not enough. It must specifically take the form of an encounter with some kind of extraordinary figure, often supernatural in origin. This figure may or may not themselves be Byronic, but they must be so shockingly otherworldly as to elicit the kind of reaction that contact with the sublime should. Furthermore, this figure cannot be presented as mere unintelligent beast. Like the original Creature, they must be articulate, or at least intelligent in some way that is recognizably human, perhaps superhuman. A somewhat ironic example can be presented here. Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, as originally written by Robert Louis Stevenson, fails this test. The titular monster is presented as little more than a primeval beast – Utterson even exclaims upon meeting him, “God bless me, the man seems hardly human! Something troglodytic, shall we say?” (Stevenson 2) Subsequent adaptations, however, alter the story. Notably, the famous 1990 musical adaptation features an Edward Hyde who, despite his uncontrollable, sadistic passions, is capable of cunning and even seduction. During a musical number in which he has a sexual encounter with the prostitute Lucy, she sings:
Watching your eyes
As they invade my soul –
Forbidden pleasures
I’m afraid to make mine.
…
I am out of my mind –
I am out of control –
Fighting feelings I can’t define! (Cuccioli and Eder)
The overwhelming feeling that Lucy struggles to describe here is a typical response to a sublime encounter. Burke’s terror, which occurs when “danger or pain press too nearly” (Burke 107), is clearly identifiable here. So is pleasure, described as an emotion resulting from one having “escaped an imminent danger” (Burke 103). Despite her fear, Lucy cannot help but feel the thrill of a sexual encounter with one who could seriously hurt her at any moment but chooses not to – at least temporarily.
This marked difference in characterization is unsurprising. Stevenson’s novel was published in 1886, in the midst of the Victorian era. Other monsters of the time, such as Bram Stoker’s Dracula, are similar in their unambiguous evil reflected in everything from their lack of discernible motives besides bloodlust for bloodlust’s own sake to their physical repulsiveness; this is perhaps reflective of the just-beginning globalization process and its accompanying anxieties. By contrast, the musical Jekyll & Hyde made its debut at a time when contemporary culture’s fascination with and love for the Byronic figure had already taken hold (as is proven by the popularity of Han Solo of Star Wars fame, as well as the release of The Rocky Horror Picture Show itself!). In any case, the sublime figure’s intelligence is crucial because it plays a key role in the plot structure of the Frankenstein meme. His or her effect on the rest of the cast must not be entirely attributable to accidents of circumstance, but must instead stem from the figure’s own insistence on being acknowledged as real and alive.
Finally, the sublime figure must by necessity act as a narrative double for the protagonist. Other doubles may or may not be present in the story, but this particular externalization of the self must be present. R.E. Foust writes in “Monstrous Image: Theory of Fantasy Antagonists”:
The psychological purpose of a fantasy text is to reforge the fragments of the nature-civilization dualism by a creative act that places representatives of both domains, the human protagonist and his monstrous adversary, in the fiction’s foreground. By locking them in an ambivalent encounter the fiction forces the reader into a transient but deep awareness of the basic ontological fact of his own rootedness in both the phenomena of nature and the epiphenomena of consciousness. Thus the “monster” is much more than mankind’s enemy, the clear-cut “feond mancynnes” that its inchoate appearance and manifest malevolence misleadingly proclaim it to be. Ambivalence is at the core of the “monstrous Image.” (443)
Foust correctly notes that fantasy texts uniquely make physical the most frightening parts of human nature in a way that works of realism cannot manage on account of their adherence to that which is strictly possible. It stands to reason, then, that such a quality must necessarily be an aspect of the Frankenstein meme, as the sublime figure is only able to exist in worlds free of the oppression of the mundane and the humdrum. In fact, Foust credits Frankenstein itself with giving “literature its first ‘mad scientist’ and its most famous fantasy antagonist — the lithe, articulate, but repulsive Monster” (444). Interestingly, he also mentions Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde as an example, claiming that “R. L. Stevenson took Mary Shelley’s characters — the irrationally rational man and the Monster — and placed both inside one human form, thereby updating the story to suit the tastes of a more psychologically self-conscious public” (445). Again, though I hold that Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde is not a true example of the Frankenstein meme as I have defined it, it certainly is an example of the doubling directly influenced by Frankenstein that occurs in nearly all fantasy, and therefore in all examples of the meme, which falls within the sphere of fantasy.
It would seem self-evident that Mary Shelley’s novel displays all of the traits that I have described. Nevertheless, an explanation of how Frankenstein embodies the three requirements, and how they specifically operate within the context of the story will be of use for later discussion. I will therefore outline these qualities here.
Victor Frankenstein is a Byronic hero. Foust notes that his “monomaniacal rationalism has isolated him from mankind” (444), an observation that the text confirms in multiple places. Even before the fateful waking of the Creature, Frankenstein gives hints of Byronic inclinations in Victor’s character. In Chapter III of Volume I, he states breathlessly of his own studies, “none but those who have experienced them can conceive of the enticements of science. In other studies you go as far as others have gone before you, and there is nothing more to know; but in a scientific pursuit there is continual food for discovery and wonder” (31). His thirst for knowledge extends beyond the usual boundaries, as does his desire to surpass any predecessor, and it is this drive for excellence that motivates his experiment. Upon undertaking it, he begins to isolate himself, another telltale mark of a Byronic character: “winter, spring, and summer, passed away during my labours; but I did not watch the blossom or the expanding leaves—sights which before always yielded me supreme delight, so deeply was I engrossed in my occupation. The leaves of that year had withered before my work drew near to a close; and now every day shewed me more plainly how well I had succeeded. But my enthusiasm was checked by my anxiety, and I appeared rather like one doomed by slavery to toil in the mines, or any other unwholesome trade, than an artist occupied by his favourite employment” (Shelley 36). The first thing the reader may notice here is the transformation in Victor’s character. In as far as we can trust him as a narrator, we are told that he used to take pleasure in simple sights, but the overwhelming interiority of his character has begun to consume him, spurred on by the temptation of greatness. Even more tellingly, his desire is accompanied by tortured emotions. Like Byron’s own Manfred, he suffers from a nameless guilt that keeps him from experiencing true enjoyment even as he grasps towards rapture. The weight of these feelings even begins to cause physical symptoms. Victor admits that “every night I was oppressed by a slow fever, and I became nervous to a most painful degree; a disease that I regretted the more because I had hitherto enjoyed most excellent health, and had always boasted of the firmness of my nerves” (Shelley 36).
An important distinction must be made here. Though Frankenstein has begun to exhibit Byronic traits, he is not at this point fully fledged. He makes this evident in his very next statement, that he “believed that exercise and amusements would soon drive away such symptoms; and I promised myself both of these, when my creation should be complete” (Shelley 36). Victor assumes at this point that he will be able to return to the world in one piece, and that the changes in personality and disposition that have gripped him are mere products of circumstance and not precursors to something larger. These naive misconceptions are quickly corrected in the Creature’s waking moments. The first words he devotes to seeing his work finished are: “how can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate the wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavored to form?” (Shelley 37) The very thing that Victor had worked towards – his creation coming to life – is now a traumatic disaster. Before, he had obviously held some regard for the Creature, as “his limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as beautiful” (Shelley 37). Seeing it finished and alive at last, he can now only call it a “wretch”. He runs from his monster “endeavouring to seek a few moments of forgetfulness” in sleep but is instead tormented by “the wildest dreams” (Shelley 37), and when he awakens again to the sight of his creation, he runs again and passes the rest of the night “in the greatest agitation” (Shelley 38). Every aspect of this moment marks it as one from which Victor will never recover, and even he finally recognizes this, realizing that “mingled with this horror, I felt the bitterness of disappointment: dreams that had been my food and pleasant rest for so long a space, were now become a hell to me; and the change was so rapid, the overthrow so complete!” (Shelley 38). His use of the word “overthrow” is quite deliberate. It brings to mind images of political coups and the execution of kings, and is quite possibly a direct reference to the French Revolution, the aftermath of which England was still reeling from. The internal coup that Victor has experienced is, of course, just as gruesome and irreversible as any beheading.
Physical illness is a marker of mental disturbance in Frankenstein, and this incident is no different. Victor recounts, “this was the commencement of a nervous fever, which confined me for several months” (Shelley 41). Interestingly, at this point he has a chance to confess what has transpired to his friend Henry Clerval, who is acting as his nursemaid, and a perfect opportunity is provided by his own delirious ramblings in the midst of the sickness: “the form of the monster on whom I had bestowed existence was for ever before my eyes, and I raved incessantly concerning him” (Shelley 41). His narration becomes defensive here, as he is quick to assert that “in a short time I became as cheerful as before I was attacked by the fatal passion” (Shelley 41). Regardless of his apparent cheer, even suspecting that Clerval may know of the Creature is enough to throw Victor into a fit of nervousness: “I trembled. One subject! What could it be? Could he allude to an object on whom I dared not even think?” (Shelley 42). Still he keeps the fact of the Creature’s existence to himself, cementing his self-imposed mental torture. Even when the circumstances – and common sense – demand that he reveal his secret, he remains stubbornly silent. Soon after his convalescence, Victor hears of the death of his little brother, William Frankenstein, and returns home. Here, he spies his creation: “I could not be mistaken. A flash of lightning illuminated the obect, and discovered its shape plainly to me; it’s gigantic stature, and the deformity of its aspect, more hideous than belongs to humanity, instantly informed me that it was the wretch” (Shelley 53). Just as quickly, he comes to the conclusion that “nothing in human shape could have destroyed that fair child. He was the murderer!” (Shelley 53) His sincere belief at this point is that his Creature is alive, murderous, and wandering about unchecked – yet he still keeps his secret, offering only the flimsiest of excuses: “the strange nature of the animal would elude all pursuit, even if I were so far credited as to persuade my relatives to commence it” (Shelley 54). This trend continues when the innocent Justine Moritz is falsely accused of the murder. Victor comes close to making a confession at this point, telling his family, “I know the murderer” (Shelley 56), but his father dismisses the statement and very quickly, he finds excuses to not speak again. First, he convinces himself that the trial will inevitably go well, assuring Walton that “I had no fear, therefore, that any circumstantial evidence could be brought forward strong enough to convict her” (Shelley 56), and then, when there is a miscarriage of justice, he justifies himself thus: “a thousand times rather would I have confessed myself guilty of the crime ascribed to Justine; but I was absent when it was committed, and such a declaration would have been considered as the ravings of a madman” (Shelley 57). Even meeting the Creature and being given a deadly ultimatum does not shake his self-imposed vow of silence; upon hearing of his betrothal to Elizabeth, he reflects, “I must perform my engagement, and let the monster depart with his mate, before I allowed myself to enjoy the delight of an union from which I expected peace” (Shelley 117). This refusal to let others know about the Creature leads directly to the deaths of Henry Clerval, and, finally, Elizabeth Lavenza.
Victor isolates himself emotionally to the point of near-madness, the effects of which are described painstakingly. After Justine’s death, he describes his condition as “remorse” that “hurried me away to a hell of intense tortures, such as no language can describe” and that can only be even slightly mollified by “deep, dark, death-like solitude” (Shelley 65). There is, too, an exceedingly Byronic selfishness in these sentiments, as he takes care to clarify that
Thus the poor sufferer tried to comfort others and herself. She indeed gained the resignation she desired. But I, the true murderer, felt the never-dying worm alive in my bosom, which allowed of no hope or consolation. Elizabeth also wept, and was unhappy; but her’s also was the misery of innocence, which, like a cloud that passes over the fair moon, for a while hides, but cannot tarnish its brightness. Anguish and despair had penetrated into the core of my heart; I bore a hell within me, which nothing could extinguish. (Shelley 61-2)
Victor is quite certain that his suffering surpasses that of either Elizabeth or Justine, despite the fact that the latter has been sentenced to death wrongfully. This points to a self-involvement that does not abate, but in fact only deepens as the novel progresses. In perhaps the most egregious misunderstanding in the entirety of Frankenstein, when the Creatures makes the threat “I shall be with you on your wedding-night” (Shelley 131), Victor assumes erroneously that he is his own person that he is plotting to murder. More amazing still, he expects that he and the Creature will engage in some sort of mortal combat, and actually begs Elizabeth to exit the scene: “suddenly I reflected how dreadful the combat which I momentarily expected would be to my wife, and I earnestly entreated her to retire, resolving not to join her until I had obtained some knowledge as to the situation of my enemy” (Shelley 153). Predictably, this results in her death at the Creature’s hands.
This is an event similar to the original “overthrow” that occurs when Victor first sees the creature in that it is a point of no return. He breaks his narration here to state, “why should I dwell upon the incidents that followed this last overwhelming event. Mine has been a tale of horrors; I have reached their acme, and what I must now relate can be but tedious to you. Know that, one by one, my friends were snatched away; I was left desolate.” This final desolation cements his status as a Byronic figure. Alone and friendless, he becomes driven solely by a desire for revenge, ironically finding strength in his need to return the suffering the Creature has visited upon him. He describes his own demeanor as “a phrenzy in my manner, and something, I doubt not, of that haughty fierceness, which the martyrs of old are said to have possessed” while also acknowledging that “to a Genevan magistrate, whose mind was occupied by far other ideas than those of devotion and heroism, this elevation of mind had much the appearance of madness” (Shelley 158). Victor pursues his purpose, knowing that there is very little chance of his success, and eventually brings himself to the point of mortal exhaustion, but even as he dies he tells Walton, “the task of his destruction was mine, but I have failed…I asked you to undertake my unfinished work; and I renew this request now” (Shelley 174).
The Creature, of course, is the embodiment of the sublime itself. There is something inherent to its being that causes the human mind to reel on the edge of madness. At the occasion of its birth, Victor specifically attributes his initial rejection to his creation’s monstrous appearance, asserting that “unable to endure the aspect of the being I had created, I rushed out of the room” (Shelley 37) and later in the narration claiming “no mortal could support the horror of that countenance” (Shelley 38). Certainly this statement is a defensive one, as Frankenstein’s account of how he abandoned the Creature precedes directly. At this point, Mary Shelley could have provided a morally uncomplicated narrative by proving her protagonist’s statement to be false or at least dubious. (In fact, the common undergraduate reading of the story, that Victor was “the real monster”, seems to stem from exactly this sentiment). Despite this temptation, she instead demonstrates through repetition that there is in fact something about the Creature that drives people to acts of inhumanity. His very first encounter with a human other than his creator ends in similarly emphatic rejection: “[the old man[ turned on hearing a noise; and, perceiving me, shrieked loudly, and, quitting the hut, ran across the fields with a speed of which his debilitated form hardly appeared capable” (Shelley 78). When he attempts to enter a house in a village, “the children shrieked, and one of the women fainted. The whole village was roused; some fled, some attacked me, until, grievously bruised by stones and many other kinds of missile weapons, I escaped to the open country…” (Shelley 78). Even the De Lacey family, whom the Creature specifically notes for their “gentle manners” (Shelley 81), are not immune. The elder De Lacey is only able to endure him for a short time because he is blind, and the monster’s “voice, although harsh, had nothing terrible in it” (Shelley 101). As soon as the rest of the family enters, the encounter quickly goes sour: “who can describe their horror and consternation on beholding me? Agatha fainted; and Safie, unable to attend to her friend, rushed out of the cottage. Felix darted forward, and with supernatural force tore me from his father…dashed me to the ground, and struck me violently with a stick” (Shelley 103). Walton, who was warned about the creature by Victor beforehand, is only barely able to maintain his composure, recalling, “never did I behold a vision so horrible as his face, of such loathsome, yet appalling hideousness. I shut my eyes involuntarily, and endeavored to recollect what were my duties with regard to this destroyer” (Shelley 175). A short while later, he states, “I dared not again raise my looks upon his face, there was something so scaring and unearthly in his ugliness” (Shelley 175). Once again, Shelley has chosen her words very deliberately: the Creature’s appearance is not merely an exceptional example of mundane unsightliness, but rather defies human comprehension in such a way as to challenge the sanity of the viewer. To look at him is to gaze upon the sublime, and in spite of this, he is shown to be intelligent, articulate, and even deeply philosophical in a way that not only matches but surpasses human prowess. In a matter of months, he progresses from uttering “inarticulate sounds” (Shelley 38) and being utterly illiterate to reading works of literature and being capable of relating to them on a personal level:
But Paradise Lost excited different and far deeper emotions…I often referred the several situations, as their similarity struck me, to my own. Like Adam, I was created apparently united by o link to any other being in existence; but his state was far different from mine in every other respect. He had come forth from the hands of God a perfect creature, happy and prosperous, guarded by the especial care of his Creator; he was allowed to converse with, and acquire knowledge from beings of a superior nature: but I was wretched, helpless, and alone. Many times I considered Satan as the fitter emblem of my condition; for, often, like him, when I viewed the bliss of my protectors, the bitter gall of envy rose within me. (Shelley 98)
The Creature’s identification with Satan marks him as Victor’s mirror. Like him, he experiences a maddening isolation, and he too displays the same deterioration into a single fatal purpose after a point of no return. For the monster, this occurs after the rejection of the De Laceys; he describes that “my daily vows rose for revenge—a deep and deadly revenge” and that “all joy was but a mockery, which insulted my desolate state, and made me feel more painfully that I was not made for the enjoyment of pleasure” (Shelley 108). On instinct, he searches for Victor, and ultimately, after attempting to kidnap his brother William and finding him just as unreceptive to his company as other humans, he finds that killing him instead is much more satisfying, observing, “I, too, can create desolation” (Shelley 109). It is at this point that his rampage of destruction against Victor truly begins, and it is here that the two begin to mirror each other in terms of behavior and motives. Both are Byronic figures, obsessed with each other and driven by hatred for one another. As Frankenstein morally deteriorates by withdrawing from humanity, so does the Creature as he carries out murder after murder, and at the novel’s end, once Victor has expired, he acknowledges that “it is true that I am a wretch. I have murdered the lovely and the helpless; I have strangled the innocent as they slept, and grasped to death his throat who never injured me or any other living thing. I have devoted my creator, the select specimen of all that is worthy of love and admiration among men, to misery; I have pursued him even to that irremediable ruin” (Shelley 178). Unable to continue existing without his mirror image, the Creature resolves to commit suicide via self-immolation so that he may “exult in the agony of the torturing flames”, but not before making one last Byronic assertion about his dead creator: “blasted as thou wert, my agony was still superior to thine; for the bitter sting of remorse may not cease to rankle in my wounds until death shall close them for ever” (Shelley 179).
As I mentioned previously, Mary Shelley might have easily written Frankenstein as a straightforward moral tale. Instead, there is an emphasis on subjectivity of experience that makes the novel difficult to dismiss. That Frankenstein is wrong to have abandoned his Creature is hardly debatable, yet blaming him entirely for his reaction like undergraduates often do becomes problematic when one considers that it appears to be universal. There is indeed no human character in the entirety of Frankenstein able to “support the horror of that countenance.” The damage that Victor’s personality sustains is a result of a legitimate trauma that has occurred; he has encountered the sublime and cannot help but be altered by it. A conscientious reader is forced to consider that their own reaction might have been very much the same. Likewise, the Creature’s murderous nature is presented purely as a result of the suffering he has endured since birth, as he himself states emphatically when he exhorts his creator, “believe me, Frankenstein; I was benevolent; my soul glowed with love and humanity” (Shelley 73). These two enter a moral framework that is dizzying for an average reader to comprehend, and yet they cannot help but sympathize with these characters and feel sorrow for their misfortune even as they understand that their actions are unacceptable from a societal standpoint. Both Victor and the Creature ideally elicit emotional responses while simultaneously existing in an ethical matrix that should theoretically make such sympathy impossible. This is at the heart of the Frankenstein meme, and is the chief ability of the Byronic figure as an audience experience.
Such is the driving force behind The Rocky Horror Picture Show, a cultural phenomenon that has continued to be celebrated, against all apparent odds, into the present day. Rocky Horror, of course, takes some very direct cues from Frankenstein. The antagonist and arguable main character, Dr. Frank-N-Furter, is a clear nod to Mary Shelley’s Victor – though the addition of the title “doctor” originates from the famous Whale production – and like his predecessor, he attempts to bring to life “his ultimate scientific creation: the perfect male specimen” (Macor 370) only to have his experiment go horribly wrong. While this is the most significant obvious connection, other allusions to the Whale films are also notable. Brad and Janet’s arrival at the mansion after traveling through the pouring rain may parody low-budget horror movie cliché, but it also mirrors that of Elizabeth Lavenza and Victor Moritz at Henry Frankenstein’s abandoned-watchtower-turned laboratory, which in and of itself draws inspiration from gothic convention and associations of rain and stormy weather with Byronic figures. The introduction of Dr. Scott midway through the movie likewise parallels that of Dr. Waldman; both men are former teachers of one of the protagonists, are respected scientific scholars, speak with German accents and act as voices of reason for the younger, more impetuous characters. Fritz and Riff-Raff resemble each other as physically unappealing, unappreciated assistant characters. There are even visual cues that alert the viewer to this connection. Dr. Frankenstein wears a smock as Fritz helps to man the machines that bring the Creature to life, and Rocky Horror affectionately parodies these aspects of the original by dressing its Dr. Frank-N-Furter in a highly feminized version of the same and having the beleaguered Riff-Raff be in charge of almost all of the manual labor. Rocky and the Creature both begin their lives in raised mechanical apparatuses with their faces covered. Magenta’s hairstyle in the final scenes of the movie is almost identical to that of the titular Bride of Frankenstein. Rocky Horror demonstrates a strong awareness of and willingness to playfully mock its source material.
Also like Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, it has enjoyed cultural longevity and an adoring audience for as long as it has existed despite its critical failure. Rocky Horror began its life in 1973 as a stage musical written by actor Richard O’Brien and “was an instant success. The popularity of the musical…made it necessary to move the production to successively larger theaters throughout London” (Macor 370). Despite this warm popular reception, the musical fared poorly on the more mainstream stage of Broadway (Macor 371). Reception of the 1975 film adaptation was no more forgiving: “it was initially deemed a miserable failure, both at the box office and critically” (Picart 371). A contemporary review from Newsweek calls it “tasteless, plotless, pointless” (Picart 371), eerily echoing the sentiments expressed in many of the reviews for Shelley’s novel. In January of 1818, John Wilson Croker wrote in Quarterly,
Our taste and our judgment alike revolt at this kind of writing, and the greater the ability with which it may be executed the worse it is—it inculcates no lesson of conduct, manners, or morality; it cannot mend, and will not even amuse its readers, unless their taste have been deplorably vitiated—it fatigues the feelings without interesting the understanding; it gratuitously harasses the heart, and wantonly adds to the store, already too great, of painful sensations. (377)
In both cases – Rocky Horror is accused of being “tasteless” and “pointless” while Croker asserts that Frankenstein contains no lessons that a reader could apply to their life – the criticism is tinged with an underlying fear of the transgressive moral framework that both works present. Conservative, traditional modes of thought typically grasp for a coherent narrative with a clearly visible message of adherence to some value regarded as important by society at large, and so when works such as these instead present a Byronic aversion to didacticism or “safe” themes, the guardians of hegemony naturally take umbrage to their very existence.
Such fear can and was found in academic settings as well. In a 1980 issue of The English Journal, several scholars wrote for a column entitled “Our Readers Write: What Is the Significance of The Rocky Horror Picture Show? Why Do Kids Keep Going to It?” Dan Ward dismisses the film’s commentary as fatuous, describing it as “a poor parody of the gothic horror film with a science fiction dressing” and stating bluntly that “there are attempts, albeit vain, that might have been satirical and/or social comment; there are echoes of other films too dignified to mention in this context…the film would be eminently dismissible if it were not for the audience” (62). By characterizing Rocky Horror as inept cultural pastiche, he avoids addressing its transgressive qualities altogether. Meanwhile, Nicholas A. Salerno in the same column argues that
…the film is ultimately conservative. The end, if not the means, does not require the censor’s blue pencil. The conclusion suggests that “doing it” leads to death, frustration, or being lost in time, space, and meaning. Unconventional behavior does not lead to happiness. When the followers of the RHPS cult fully comprehend the implications of the conclusion, I suspect that the film will be rejected and despised, that it will be hooted and laughed at. (62).
As of the time of this writing, Salerno’s dire prediction has not yet come to pass. Contrary to what he states here, fans of Rocky Horror understand perfectly well the “implications of the conclusion”, presumably the ending sequence in which the man in the study narrates “and crawling on the planet’s face/ Some insects called the human race/ Lost in time, lost in space/ And meaning” (Sharman and O’Brien 168) accompanied by an image of Brad, Janet and Dr. Scott standing hopelessly in the dusty crater left by Frank-N-Furter’s now-absent castle. Certainly the audience is left with nothing resembling a happy ending. Any characters who have not died or gone home to their faraway planet are left dirty, disheveled and utterly dissatisfied, but this does not equate to an affirmation of conservatism any more than the ending of Lord Byron’s Manfred does because it involves in the death of its protagonist. After all, after Manfred finally expires, the Abbot reflects, “he’s gone, his soul hath ta’en its earthly flight;/ Whither? I dread to think; but he is gone” (3.4 174-5). Though he has avoided being dragged to hell, the soul departing to an utterly unknown place is at least as dismal of a fate as what any of the characters of Rocky Horror suffer. Likewise, though Manfred’s unconventional nature is remarked upon by nearly every other character, he is deeply unhappy. In Act 2, Scene 4, the First Destiny observes,
…This man
Is of no common order, as his port
And presence here denote. His sufferings
Have been of an immortal nature, like
Our own
…
…his aspirations
Have been beyond the dwellers of the earth
And they have only taught him what we know—
That knowledge is not happiness, and science
But an exchange of ignorance for that
Which is another kind of ignorance. (62-6, 69-74)
Manfred is intelligent enough to realize just how uncertain human existence is and how little man really understands, an idea remarkably similar to being lost in time, space and meaning. Byron, however, complicates his narrative with a single famous line: as his protagonist passes away, he utters, “old man! ’tis not so difficult to die” (3.4 173). Firm in where he stands despite the deep sorrow it has brought to him, in this single moment he utterly precludes the possibility that his story is a moral tale intended to warn readers off of his path. In a similar manner, an honest analysis of Rocky Horror will find it difficult to characterize it as a work that upholds traditional values uncritically, regardless of the fact that it does not resolve happily.
One of these complicating factors is that there are no characters with which a conservatively aligned viewer can align themselves. Dr. Scott, commonly viewed as the “moral voice” of the story, is coded as a Nazi sympathizer, as exemplified by Frank addressing him sneeringly as “Dr. Von Scott” and his own disturbing willingness to see various character deaths as a restoration of moral and social order (Siegel 310). The more obvious choices would be Brad, Janet, or both, as they are ostensibly the film’s protagonists and “archetypes of what it means in societal norms to be a heterosexual couple…Brad is seen to be the protective and strong male, whereas Janet is the weaker female” (Tickle 148). At first blush, it would appear that the narrative of Rocky Horror is one of two ingenues tragically corrupted by the seductive, bisexual machinations of Dr. Frank-N-Furter. Upon closer inspection, though, Brad and Janet’s problems seem to surface even before that fateful night in the castle. The musical number “Dammit, Janet!” offers several clues, both visual and lyrical, that the audience is meant to view the idealistic heterosexual relationship between the two through a heavily satirical lens. Throughout the song, several background singers heavily resembling the man and woman from Grant Wood’s 1930 painting American Gothic can be seen; all of these, in counterpoint to Brad’s exuberance, sing in a heavily exaggerated, joyless monotone. This is significant because the dour pair portrayed in the painting have frequently been viewed as “a slyly witty commentary on American ‘family values’” (Price 80), and this juxtaposition of their somberness with Brad and Janet’s apparent happiness, especially at a church in which a wedding has just taken place, seems to suggest the likelihood of an unhappy future if their life script is adhered to. In addition, just before the song occurs, the two have this rather telling exchange about the marriage they have just witnessed:
JANET (who is holding the bouquet): Oh Brad, wasn’t it wonderful. Didn’t Betty look radiantly beautiful. Just an hour ago she was plain old Betty Monroe. Now she’s Mrs. Ralph Hapschatt.
BRAD (Still looking after the car): Er…yes, Janet…….Ralph’s a lucky guy. (They start to move d.s.)
JANET: Yes.
BRAD: Everyone knows Betty’s a wonderful little cook.
JANET: Yes.
BRAD: And Ralph himself will be in line for promotion in a year or so.
JANET: Yes. (Sharman and O’Brien 15)
This scene clearly played for humor; the fact that this is so is in and of itself significant. The first thing that catches the viewer’s attention is that Brad and Janet are saying very little of substance to each other. Janet remarks that “plain old Betty Monroe” is now “Mrs. Ralph Hapschatt” – which is to say, that nothing in actuality has happened at all and her observation is an empty one. Adding another layer of meaninglessness to this exchange, Brad simply replies that Ralph is “lucky”, failing to address directly anything that Janet has said at all. The conversation devolves even further as he evaluates the marriage based on Betty’s ability to cook and Ralph’s career prospects. These are, of course, exaggerated heterosexual stereotypes of the stay at home mother and the respectable working father being played for humor, and they stand out further precisely because there is no commentary made on Betty and Ralph’s compatibility as partners. Like the visual references to American Gothic, this hints at an unsatisfying future for the two protagonists and lovers, as does the fact that Janet’s only direct responses to Brad are simple, conciliatory “yeses”. Even details that were not included in the final product point to this reality, such as the script directioons which read: “the film will now commence in Black and White on ‘ACADEMY’ format. It will extend to wide screen (1.1 – 85) at Sequence 41, while still remaining in black and white. At Sequence 54 the film changes to colour” (Sharman and O’Brien, “Script Amendments”). This is a clear reference to another film musical, The Wizard of Oz, in which all of the Kansas segments are in black and white, with the scenery only gaining color once Dorothy lands in the magical land of Oz.
What greets the two at “Sequence 54”, of course, rivals any bubble-commuting good witch. In his opening number “Sweet Transvestite”, Frank-N-Furter makes his dramatic entrance by flinging away his Dracula-like cape to reveal long legs clad in fishnet stockings and glittery platform shoes; a hairy torso wrapped in a lacy, tight-fitting corset; a richly endowed genital area bulging through lacy bikini cut underwear; and long evening gloves with their fingers cut—an effect both elegant and reminiscent of punk fashion. Frank, despite his feminine dress, also exudes masculinity, even as he mocks it, such as when he ironically “praises” Brad’s…blustery masculine aggressiveness while Frank repeatedly and pointedly ignores the young man’s demands for access to a telephone. (Picart 63)
As Picart observes, there are multiple layers of performance being positively exuded by Frank. The first thing she notes is that his cape references Dracula, incidentally another Byronic, sublime, charismatic figure but also an iconic staple in horror cinema. Even an audience member with minimal cultural awareness should be able to pick up on the association, and certainly the two protagonists do; the script notes that “Janet gives a silent scream” (Sharman and O’Brien 54A). As if there was any doubt left, “Sweet Transvestite” clarifies several times that Frank hails from a place called “Transsexual Transylvania” (Sharman and O’Brien 54A). Frank-N-Furter plays the role of villain quite willingly, and yet by performing it so bombastically he seems almost to transcend it, mocking his all too human visitors for thinking so simply as well as the arbitrariness of the performance itself. This is only highlighted further when he casts the cloak off entirely, showcasing his scarcely-clad body in its stead. Just as he mocked the villain role before, he mocks gender now. Picart correctly identifies his refusal to conform neatly to either option of the gender binary; his clothing may be that of the sexualized woman, but at the same time there is no attempt on his part to “pass” or hide his very obvious maleness. This stands in stark contrast to Brad and Janet’s stereotypical presentation, which he both mirrors by exhibiting masculine and feminine qualities at once and explicitly draws attention to, first by verbally ridiculing it as Picart describes. He then prompts his servants to divest them of “their asexual clothes, thus stripping them of their identity and leaving only the physicality of their anatomical sex. This simple act shows that gender is unstable, as part of the performativity of it can be removed by a third party” (Tickle 148). This highlighting of the artificiality of the performance thus occurs on both within the story and on a meta level.
This is the major gravitas behind the Dr. Frank-N-Furter character. He is explicitly not a “good person” in the traditional sense, nor is he attempting to be. Besides the obvious, intentional signals of his villainous nature, he exhibits just about every vice imaginable in a horror movie antagonist. Frank’s treatment of Eddie makes him a murderer and a cannibal in one fell swoop. He intends to have sexual relations with his creation, Rocky, who is both a newborn and almost certainly unwilling; his musical number, “Sword of Damocles”, has him lament,
The Sword of Damocles is
Hanging over my head.
…
And I’ve got the feeling
Someone’s going to be
Cutting the thread. (Sharman and O’Brien 71)
In addition to manipulating and perhaps even forcing his creation into becoming his sex slave, his seduction of Brad and Janet is rather dubious, involving an elements of deception – he successfully mimics each fiancee for a short amount of time – and coercion – when the two separately realize that they are being tricked, Frank tells the both of them, “Brad [Janet]’s probably asleep by now. Do you want him [her] to see you like this?” (Sharman and O’ Brien 84, 88) Thus, he is also arguably a rapist on top of the rest of his transgressions. Frank’s Byronic self-centeredness is among the most salient of his qualities. His behaviors consistently point to his seeing others as tools to be used for his own amusement and little else. In a pivotal scene, Columbia screams at him, “you’re like a sponge. You take, take, take, take! You drain others of their love and emotions” (Sharman and O’ Brien 147). Given that all of this is true, it would seem difficult for the audience to identify and even sympathize with him.
This is far from the case, however, either in-universe or in terms of audience reactions. The initially planned transition from black-and-white to color, as well as highlighting Brad and Janet’s relatively joyless existence, serves to paint Frank-N-Furter and his castle as a wonderland of possibility just as Oz was to Dorothy, and the lyrics and presentation of the number “Time Warp” reinforce this interpretation. When it begins, the room is dark and cluttered with gothic paraphernalia, with the American Gothic painting itself visibly hanging on the wall. This is as Riff Raff sings, “I remember doing the Time Warp./ Drinking those moments when/ The blackness would hit me./ And the void would be calling” (Sharman and O’Brien 40). These lyrics, though vague, hint at the kind of overwhelming experience typically associated with the sublime, and at this point in time, Brad and Janet enter into a decadent balcony room filled with smiling, guests that the script notes “are a distorted version of the GUESTS from the Denton wedding. A party spirit prevails” (Sharman and O’Brien 41). The ecstatic atmosphere intensifies as the lyrics make multiple references to insanity and losing control, and tellingly, Magenta sings,
With a bit of a mind flip
You’re into a time slip
Nothing will ever seem the same.
You’re spaced out on sensation
Like you’re under sedation… (Sharman and O’Brien 46)
This is as apt of a description of an encounter with the sublime as any. There is a switch in the perception, usually manifesting in a change of moral paradigm – a “mind flip” – that occurs and causes nothing to “ever seem the same.” The overwhelming emotions, partially fear and partially ecstasy, associated with such an experience can be reasonably described as a kind of high, thus “you’re spaced out on sensation/ Like you’re under sedation.” Janet, indeed overwhelmed, faints several times throughout the number, but the ecstasy of the crowd only intensifies, and the “groupie”, Columbia, finally seems to put a real presence to the almost indescribably experience:
Well I was walking down the streetJust having a think
When a snake of a guy
Gave me an evil wink.
Well it shook me up
It took me by surprise
He had a pick-up truck
And the devil’s eyes
He stared at me
And I felt a change
Time meant nothing
Never would again. (Sharman and O’Brien 47)
Taken into context with the rest of the film, it is hard to imagine that Columbia is describing anyone other than Frank – the only other likely candidate is Eddie, and this is rendered essentially impossible by dialogue that heavily implies that she was already in Frank’s thrall when she and Eddie met: “first you [Frank] spurn me for Eddie” (Sharman and O’Brien 147). The entire spectacle of “Time Warp”, then, is an orgiastic celebration of the sublime that Frank embodies and the resulting Byronic experience, culminating in the appearance of the doctor himself. Brad is ironically correct when he refers to the denizens of the castle as “foreigners with ways different from our own” (Sharman and O’Brien 53A); he and Janet have inadvertently encountered a Byronic culture centered around Frank-N-Furter and destined to transform all that it touches.
This is the source of the character’s power over others, both in-universe and with real audiences. One of the film’s final numbers, “The Floor Show”, demonstrates in multiple ways the nature of Frank’s charisma. It is his very performance as villain that gives him his transformative gravitas. As each character steps in, dressed in cabaret clothing, they sing about how their experience has changed them. Brad, terrified, belts out,
It’s beyond me
Help me mommy
I’ll be good you’ll see
Take this dream away
What’s this, let’s see
I feel sexy
What’s come over me
Here it comes again. (Sharman and O’ Brien 158)
Unable to cope with the sublime experience that has pressed upon him, he reverts to infantile behaviors, desperately (and to the audience’s amusement) seeking a maternal figure to comfort him. Besides being humorous, Brad’s desire for “mommy” is indicative of a wish to return to hegemonic morality. However, no mother materializes, for just as Victor Frankenstein experienced, a return from the sublime transformation is impossible even for those who desire it. Janet, by contrast, sings:
I feel released
Bad times deceased
My confidence increased
Reality is here
The game has been disbanded
My mind has been expanded
It’s a gas that Frankie’s landed
His lust is so sincere. (Sharman and O’Brien 159)
Janet’s view of the situation, of course, is more than a little rose-tinted. She is so enthralled by the experience of something so utterly new that she cannot bring herself to see anything negative about it. It is absolutely true, however, that she has cast off society’s assumptions and standards, hence the “game” being “disbanded” and “reality” being within the castle. This all occurs as the characters writhe ecstatically onstage in cabaret outfits, the ultimate theatrical show-within-a-show with Frank-N-Furter as the star. As he descends into a glittering swimming pool, he beckons them, “give yourself over to absolute pleasure/ Swim the warm waters of sins of the flesh/ Erotic nightmares beyond any measure/ And sensual daydreams to treasure forever” (Sharman and O’Brien 161). Finally, as they all dance onstage in a frenzy, they sing together, “I’m a wild and an untamed thing/ I’m a bee with a deadly sting/ Get a hit and your mind goes ping/ Your heart’ll thump and your blood will sing” (Sharman and O’Brien 161).
Frank is the ultimate showman. He is utterly unwilling to conform, and so he always has something to offer. The characters of The Rocky Horror Picture Show cannot help but be drawn to him like moths to a flame even as they recognize that by their standards he is a terrible person, and they emerge from the encounter forever changed and needing to contend with such subjectivity. Likewise, this effect is replicated on a meta level. The audience gravitates towards Frank, literally participating in the events of the film in the most active way possible, because he “moves the audience to identify with his boisterous disdain for traditional rituals…he is the deviant god, leading his people astray while celebrating the right to do so” (Kinkade and Katovich 199, 200). Audiences identify with this and, furthermore, feel liberated by the obvious performativity of the entire event; “Rocky Horror’s obvious pastiche of other musicals, teenage horror films, and early adolescent coming of age films…its vilification of other institutions, degradation of heterosexual romance, and its reflexive critique of its own production (in which the audience participates) make [it] a unique document. It criticizes and parodies both other films and itself” (Kinkade and Katovich 203). The best performer is a self-aware performer, and Rocky Horror’s audience understands this. The film has remained popular among cult audiences because it replicates the Byronic experience so effectively while using its own format as performance to force its viewers to question their own motives.
Though the connection may seem to be tenuous at first glance, the visual novel Saya no Uta accomplishes much the same, though via different methods on account of its format. The medium itself, which is relatively obscure in non-Asian countries, warrants explanation. On the surface, a visual novel is very much like a digital form of the Choose Your Own Adventure book; like one of these, it presents a textual narrative that branches out into different pathways at certain “checkpoints” in which the reader/player is presented with a set of choices that they must choose between to progress (Lebowitz and Klug 194). “Bad ends” are almost always a possibility, even in lighthearted visual novels, and like their printed predecessors, these frequently are the bulk of the story’s possible endings (Lebowitz and Klug 194). There will also generally be a handful of “true endings” that the reader/player is able to access if they make the “correct” decisions. However, unlike Choose Your Own Adventure books, which are by their nature limited in scope, visual novels are complex storytelling tools in their own right, mainly because of the advantages their digital form grants. Notably, “features, such as a large number of save slots and the ability to rapidly skip through sections that have already been read, make it easy for players to fully explore the story and try out all the different branches” (Lebowitz and Klug 194). In addition, unlike books, which are limited by their physical size, visual novels are limited only by file size, allowing the author to create as many unique branches as he or she desires and to make each branch its own captivating, intricate narrative. For example, the total word count of Fate/Stay Night, a popular and well-regarded example of the genre, is higher than that of the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy, thanks to its three main, equally important and thematically rich “routes” (Lebowitz and Klug 194). The relative depth of the visual novel in comparison to Choose Your Own Adventure books, as well as the ease in which its various options are explored, is significant because a completionist mindset is expected and often explicitly encouraged: “to experience all of the available – and always partial – solutions potentially entailed by a visual novel, it is necessary to replay the game several times, opting for different routes on each occasion” (Cavallero 1). To this end, besides offering the reader/player several interesting storylines and an easily navigable interface, it presents detailed illustrations to match what is occurring in the narrative – hence the “visual” aspect. A typical screen in a visual novel will include “lovingly depicted (and mainly stationary) generic backgrounds and dialogue boxes with character sprites determining the speaker superimposed on them” (Cavallero 8), while important moments in the story might be accompanied by “more detailed images drawn especially for those scenes and enhanced by more cinematic camera angles and CGI” (Cavallaro 8). In summary, pictorial sumptuousness, vibrant palettes, meticulous devotion to plot depth and character design and development are absolutely vital aspects of the medium” (Cavallero 8).
Saya no Uta is both a typical and an atypical example of the genre. First and foremost, it involves player choice at several points during its narrative, but unusually, there are only a handful of available options and three possible “branches”, a very small number for a visual novel. Devoted character sprites and reused generic backgrounds, as well as situation-specific illustrations, are also present in Saya no Uta – but these are utilized in a manner not often replicated by other visual novels. Finally, it gives no explicit completionist directives, yet is extraordinarily successful at encouraging a completionist style of play. This is significant because knowing every possible turn of the story is vital to full understanding and enjoyment of its themes, which establish it as firmly within the tradition of the Frankenstein meme and subjectivity. While the visual novel is typically characterized by a “tenacious aversion to bluntly adversarial ethical opposites” (Cavallaro 5), Saya no Uta both pushes this trait to its limits and makes its reader keenly aware of what is occurring.
The story revolves around a young man, Fuminori Sakisaka, who encounters the sublime in multiple ways and gradually makes his slide into Byronic other-morality in a more gruesome manner than in any of the previous works discussed. Unlike The Rocky Horror Picture Show, Saya no Uta makes no specific references to Frankenstein or any of its adaptations, but as soon as the beginning facts are established, parallels can be drawn. Fuminori, like Victor, is a medical student. At first glance this might seem like a relatively insignificant detail, especially since unlike Victor, Fuminori has no unique passion for his subject and does not delve into it in the same dangerous way his counterpart does. However, the importance of this detail becomes quite clear as the shocking opening scenes of the story unfold. Immediately, the player’s ears are assaulted with screaming guitars and an electronic, garbled noise vaguely resembling human speech, and they are given fleeting glimpses of amorphous creatures slick with mucus and knotted with what appears to be muscle tissue. The landscape presented is no less disgusting, as it appears to be strewn with blood and viscera. Only Fuminori’s narration gives some kind of respite to the senses, and he soon explains what exactly is happening. Three months ago, he contracted a form of agnosia that causes him to perceive everything that reaches his senses as repulsive. Food tastes like unappetizing sludge, his surroundings appear to be made of human gore, voices read to his ears as cacophonous screeching and burbling, and the monsters he sees – as he puts it – “are my ‘friends,’ apparently. I want to deny it, of course — but I gave up on that a long time ago” (Urobuchi). Fuminori assesses his own situation, lamenting, “I have to live while blending in, while acting like one of them. Just as I’ve done these past three months, I will continue to do for the rest of my life” (Urobuchi). He has already begun his slide into Byronic isolation, though he has not yet let go of the idea of working within society’s framework even if he loathes it with all his being. Nevertheless, he repeatedly displays a sense of alienation and refers to himself as a stranger in a strange land, going so far as to ask himself “how many nights have I spent crying in loneliness, lamenting the friends who no longer exist?” and going on to state “I have no place to call home” (Urobuchi).
This is particularly significant due to the fact that Fuminori is not a simple layman. He is perfectly aware of how his agnosia works, and in fact, he later admits in his own words, “I have a basic idea of what happened to me, though it’s hard to believe” (Urobuchi). He therefore knows very well that nothing around him has actually changed at all and that what he perceives is essentially the result of his own senses sending his brain incorrect feedback. Despite this surface-level cognitive understanding, Fuminori cannot help his emotions any more than one completely ignorant of medical science. Despite understanding that the disorder is in his own mind, his reaction is one that externalizes the issue and pits himself against a world gone mad in which “having become unable to feel anything but disgust for other people, there [is] no way I could hope to maintain any of the relationships I had before the accident” (Urobuchi). His feeling of revulsion towards the outside, like Victor’s against the Creature, is an instinctive reaction that he cannot hope to control, and because Saya no Uta, through its visuals and audio, gives the player a small but very unpleasant taste of what Fuminori is forced to suffer, they are forced to wonder if they would react the same way. Though the protagonist’s hateful demeanor is initially shocking, so too is the sensory assault applied by the visual novel, and a conscientious audience will ask themselves as he does, “if merely talking to someone is an unbearable ordeal, how can I be expected to show kindness?”(Urobuchi) There is also a subtle, but terrifying implication made about science in both works; it is a tool to further our understanding, but its very blindness and objectivity makes it a key to truths that the human race physically and psychologically cannot cope with. Just as Victor’s ability to reverse death does not prepare him for the raw physicality of the Creature’s sublimity, Fuminori’s understanding of his agnosia does nothing to mitigate his bitter emotions, and in fact only makes him (and the reader) more painfully aware of how easily and arbitrarily human happiness is stripped away.
Like Victor, too, there is an intelligent being serving as the locus of his Byronic madness. Unlike the Creature, this figure is initially notable to Fuminori because of her extreme and unearthly beauty amidst a backdrop of desolation and horror. “Since the accident”, he notes, “this girl is the only person I’ve met – perhaps the only person in the world – who does not trigger my cognitive disorder” (Urobuchi). Fuminori explains that he first met the girl, Saya, mysteriously wandering the halls of the hospital, and makes it very clear that her presence is the only reason he is still alive, as beforehand, “…I decided to kill myself. I didn’t believe for a second that I could come to terms with this new world” (Urobuchi). He spoke to her every night, and finally, after learning that she essentially lived at the hospital, invited her to come to his home instead. This is the point at which Saya no Uta chronologically begins; Saya and Fuminori are cohabiting and have begun a sexual, romantic relationship that is clearly obsessive in nature. After making love one night, he confesses, “I’m losing myself to you more and more. Soon I won’t be able to live without you”, to which she replies “you’re all I have too. In this whole world, only you will embrace me” (Urobuchi).
This is a signifier of the transformation that Fuminori undergoes. As he becomes absorbed with Saya, he simultaneously withdraws from the world, spurning all other company. He even goes so far as to reject a former love interest, Yoh Tsukuba, rather brutally, telling her, “Tsukuba-san, I hate you. I don’t even want to look at you” (Urobuchi). A reader familiar with Frankenstein may very well draw a connection to Victor’s practical spurning of Elizabeth as his obsession with the Creature becomes all-consuming. However, the exchange between Fuminori and Saya is significant for a second reason; it hints at a truth that becomes integral to the visual novel’s exploration of the Byronic experience. As the story progresses, it becomes increasingly clear that Fuminori is incorrect when he states that Saya is unaffected by his agnosia. In fact, he perceives her just as inaccurately as he does other people, and she only appears beautiful to his eyes because she is not human.
Interestingly, like Frank-N-Furter of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, she is an extraterrestrial, specifically a transdimensional traveler “created to fulfill the same ultimate purpose that all life shares: reproduction. Saya and her kind procreate by spreading their seeds to other dimensions” (Urobuchi). Notably, because of her nature as an artificially created otherworldly being, she is quite literally amoral. In the hospital, she tells Fuminori without shame, “sometimes I sneak into [psychiatric patients’] rooms late at night and scare them. Even if they raise a big fuss, no one believes what mental patients say” and admits without shame that she had planned to do the same to him. Despite her sexual relationship with Fuminori, a human, she also feeds on the viscera of humans and animals, opportunistically killing Yoh’s best friend Oumi Takahata after she comes to Fuminori’s house to demand an apology for his behavior. When he discovers this, Saya’s only fear is that he will be angry at him. She has no concept of “transgression” in an ethical sense and acts purely based on pleasure and pain.
What Saya does not predict is that Fuminori’s agnosia affects his perception of her “food” just as much as it does anything else. Normally prepared food is unappetizing to him, and therefore, human entrails are fragrant and enticing. Rather than reacting in disgust, and to Saya’s great shock, he begins to share her meal. This moment is a turning point in Fuminori’s slide into subjectivity, and though he initially does not realize that he is eating human remains, his lover’s genuine amorality and adherence to the pleasure principle enable him to feel little sympathy or regret even when he does discover the truth. The reader/player, too, is drawn into the experience. The visual novel does not actually allow them to witness Oumi’s grisly killing, and when they catch their first glimpse of Saya feasting, they are merely shown an image of a girl eating a translucent, fruit-like jelly substance. Therefore, like Fuminori, we do not grasp or feel the horror of the situation the way we would if we were to view it “correctly.” A multilayered mirroring process is at work here. Saya encourages and enables Fuminori’s slide into Byronic subjectivity, and in turn, the way the visual novel presents its story draws the reader into the protagonist’s point of view, one that would be horrific if seen from “the outside”.
At this point, Fuminori’s estranged best friend, Kouji Tonoh, becomes suspicious of him and begins to investigate Oumi’s disappearance. He manages to find some information on Saya’s previous caretaker, the scientist Dr. Ougai, before being confronted by an irritated Fuminori, who fumes afterwards, “why won’t everyone stay out of my life!? I want to find a place free of other people – a place where I can live together with Saya” (Urobuchi). Such a sentiment shows a departure from his initial resigned attitude towards living a hegemonic life despite his radically changed perceptions; he is now yearning to break free of those constraints and actively desires to be estranged from the rest of humanity. After having intercourse with Saya once more, his obsession with her and simultaneous rejection of humankind only deepens: “I need to resolve once and for all to rid myself of the useless trappings of morality. Saya and I are all that matters” (Urobuchi). He explicitly expresses here that he is beginning to view society’s standards as arbitrary and stifling, and that, following the sublime figure’s example, he will only follow what he deems best based on his own experience.
Another crucial point in the narrative arrives at this point. Saya, out of curiosity and loneliness, steals Fuminori’s files from the hospital, studies his brain scans, and is able to learn how to inflict his form of agnosia on other people. She promptly carries out this procedure upon the next door neighbor, mistakenly believing that like Fuminori, he will see her as beautiful and befriend her. Instead, the man instantly goes mad when confronted with his “new world” and, perceiving his wife and child as monsters, murders them. He does indeed perceive Saya as a lovely young woman, but in a fit of nihilistic sadism, he proceeds to sexually assault her. Fuminori arrives home early, witnesses this rape, and in turn kills his neighbor before gathering a tearful Saya into his arms. She confesses to him, “I thought that, if everyone were like you, they would all–be kind to me” (Urobuchi). At this time, the reader/player is presented with branching pathways for the first time. Saya reveals that she has the ability to reverse Fuminori’s condition and offers to do so; it is up to the audience whether or not he accepts her offer.
The true genius behind Saya no Uta’s Byronic mechanism lies here. The traditionally moral reader will of course be inclined to choose to “fix” Fuminori, and the visual novel anticipates this choice. Almost immediately after it is selected, the protagonist reflects, “what does it mean to wish for the past, and what could it do to me and Saya? As soon as these thoughts occur to me, my true feelings become unclear” (Urobuchi). These sentiments foreshadow coming events, as what follows is an abrupt ending that seems to be deliberately written to be as unsatisfying as possible. Fuminori regains his senses from before the accident, but the consequences of his previous actions soon catch up to him. His acts of murder and cannibalism are discovered, and he is deemed guilty in court; however, he enters an insanity please successfully and is institutionalized, presumably for the rest of his life. Fuminori never sees Saya again, as she understands fully well that her “true” form would be unbearably repulsive to him. Her final message to him, a typed message sent from underneath the door of his room, is a simple “please, let me stay the Saya you remember” (Urobuchi). The narrative concludes with Fuminori waiting fruitlessly for her alone in his room. This ending, in effect, punishes the reader/player for being naive enough to believe that their protagonist is capable of stepping back from the precipice once he has already seen into the sublime by doing none of the things a “good” ending should do. It is abrupt enough to feel inconclusive and fails to give any of the important characters closure. This, combined with the visual novel’s explicit mocking of the desire to return to “the past” through Fuminori’s words, is designed to leave the player disgruntled and desiring something more.
On second play, they will almost certainly choose to say “no” to Saya’s offer. This is the “correct” answer in that it allows the narrative to progress more fully, and with this choice, Fuminori finally rejects hegemonic morality once and for all, admitting to himself, “Saya is who she is because of who I am” (Urobuchi). He realizes the arbitrariness of the whole situation, understanding that he perceives her “just as I do everything else: as something completely different than what she really is” (Urobuchi), and despite that, he chooses his experience over what society would dictate is the correct answer. It is at this point that his and Saya’s actions escalate in a way that, once again, are almost certainly designed to elicit a response from the reader, this time one of immense discomfort. First, he leaves the house for a day in order to lure his still-suspicious former friend, Kouji, to an abandoned cabin in the woods and push him into a well. As this occurs, Saya does something even more horrific by luring Yoh, Fuminori’s former love interest, into the house and then forcibly changing her into a creature like herself so that he will be able to perceive her as beautiful as well. Interestingly, she is partially motivated by jealousy. As Yoh is being attacked, she hears Saya make an alien sound and “somehow understands that [she] is laughing contemptuously at her” (Urobuchi). Even Fuminori notes this after returning home from his apparent murder of Kouji and discovering what she has done, musing, “How wicked and terrible Saya is. Perhaps others would fear and loathe her; to me, however, her malevolence is irresistibly charming. The horrifying cruelty of what she has done to Yoh is so very human. Though her shape may be different, her soul is the same as ours” (Urobuchi). The mirroring process is at work. Saya, until now, has been enabling Fuminori, but this scene makes clear that he enables her as well. Formerly an utterly alien and amoral being, she has come to understand jealousy and revenge, and therefore she and the protagonist spiral into Byronic darkness together. What happens next is perhaps the most horrifying scene of the entire game, as the two proceed to sexually assault Yoh together. Afterwards, Fuminori says bluntly, “despite all that I have done, I am still able to sleep peacefully…..Without a doubt, I am no longer the Sakisaka Fuminori I once was” (Urobuchi).
Saya no Uta once again predicts the reader/player’s response by suddenly switching to Kouji’s point of view and revealing that he has not yet died in the well, but is instead rescued by Ryouko Tanbo, Fuminori’s doctor who has been harboring her own suspicions. Dr. Tanbo reveals what she knows about Fuminori and Saya to Kouji, and finally, after discovering his cannibalization of Oumi, he resolves to kill his former friend in order to keep the world safe from him. The reader, almost certainly disgusted at Fuminori’s actions, will very likely welcome the chance to side with a more traditional protagonist. The narrative cooperatively follows Kouji’s journey up until he is about to confront the other. At this point, the player is presented with another choice: he can either call Dr. Tanbo for backup or proceed alone. The latter is very obviously a bad idea, so a participant who truly desires for Kouji to “win” will likely choose to call the doctor. This is another trap. The desired outcome does technically happen, as he and Dr. Tanbo together manage to kill Saya, and Fuminori commits suicide in despair shortly afterwards. However, Kouji is forever traumatized by the experience of having seen such an utterly alien sublime creature: “The twenty years of memories that he has built up as Tonoh Kouji — if they were precious and dear to him, he should never have come to this place” (Urobuchi). The story ends with his keeping a gun loaded with a single bullet for the day the nightmares become too much for him to bear.
Twice, now, the player has been punished for their attempt at a traditional ending with unsatisfying, emotionally empty conclusions. The only choice they have left is to jump off the precipice and embrace Saya no Uta’s darkness by allowing Kouji to venture in alone, thereby ensuring his death. Saya slaughters him and begins to feast on his body, only to suddenly become violently ill and collapse in Fuminori’s arms. She reveals to him that she is in the process of “giving birth”; that is, she will die and release spores that will gradually mutate every living thing on the planet into beings like herself. “This world….will surely…..become beautiful,” she whispers to him, “Fuminori…..To you, who loved me…..I give…..this planet…..” (Urobuchi) Fuminori cries out to her in anguish, but to no avail; Saya dies as what he and the player perceive as glowing, flower-like wings erupt out of her back. She has passed on, but made her irreversible mark on the world, a world that her only loved one will finally be able to call home. The final scene of this ending is Dr. Tanbo alone in the mountains, watching the world mutate slowly and reading Dr. Ougai’s writings regarding Saya:
I have a dream — that one day my daughter will know the blessings of love. I pray that there will come a day when her heart burns with the flames of passion, and her world becomes bright and joyous once more. When that day comes, Saya, your terrible, irresistible purpose will surely consume us, that your progeny might flourish. The whole world will know your love, and be reborn. (Urobuchi)
At last, the reader/player is rewarded with a definitive ending that has genuine pathos driving it. Despite the horror of what has taken place, they understand that to Fuminori, this conclusion is bittersweet, that he has lost what he loves most but that at the same time Saya is now in everything he sees. They are meant to be moved emotionally, and with the culmination of all their previous experiences with the visual novel, they likely will be. At this point, a reflective reader will realize what has occurred. Saya no Uta, with the design of its multiple endings, has used their completionist drive to manipulate them into accepting Fuminori as a protagonist, and his feelings as valid. They have felt compassion for a murderer, cannibal, and rapist, and like the character of Frank-N-Furter, they have systematically rejected his hegemonic opposition in favor of his perceptions and lived experience. In effect, the reader/player has been drawn into the Byronic experience. They are Fuminori in the sense that, like him, they have rejected standard moral paradigms in favor of impressions and emotions.
Frankenstein is the story of a man who, having encountered the sublime, is changed irrevocably, withdraws from the rest of the human race and, mirroring his monster, casts off society’s standards once his own experiences and memories cease to make sense in that context. The Rocky Horror Picture Show and Saya no Uta, though very different from the source material and from each other, accomplish much the same. However, both of these go a step further by utilizing the specific characteristics of their respective media – egregious performativity in Rocky Horror, and multiple endings in Saya no Uta – to draw their audience into the Byronic experience, making them an active participant in the casting off of the outside world’s mores. This is reflective of the current form of the Frankenstein meme, which combines an embrace of certain Romantic ideas with a postmodern self-awareness and willingness to engage in metacommentary. A modern audience is very likely to understand what makes a Byronic hero work, and exactly where his appeal lies; in spite of that, he transcends his fictive nature by refusing to be laid to rest.
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