Edison's Frankenstein
Charles Ogle was, I think, my first true glimpse of cinematic horror and absurdity. Even if that is not quite true, it still has the ring of truth buried somewhere deep, deep down in its brackish, still-beating heart. His agonized, idiot visage, his long, pointed nails, his hunched and hairy frame; these things all wore the aspect of a medieval peasant, a village idiot from some lost, forgotten fairy tale. His hair, which was a frizzy, wild coif atop his suffering skull-wherein dull, ignorant eyes rested above the misshapen mouth, a mouth from which no one could guess capable articulation could emerge--all added the mien of hideousness, of a legendary ogre to the grotesque embodiment of long-suffering abandonment; abandoned, because--born of death.