Mary Shelley (2017): A Film That Honors Its Subject
- Farah Esfandiari
- Sep 3, 2024
- 4 min read
“I am alone and miserable. Man will not associate with me; but one as deformed and horrible as myself would not deny herself to me. My companion must be of the same species and have the same defects.”-Frankenstein, Mary Shelley
When we examine Frankenstein-the true nature of the story Mary Shelley wrote and the reasons behind her writing it, and then turn back to Mary Shelley herself, we begin to notice something. There is a parallel path between her life and the creature she created. Most people are not aware of this. We have been fed a version of Frankenstein that begins and ends with a green monster and a mad scientist. But there is more to it. I have spoken to the new generation of scholars and even writers, and while many of them know the story, most do not know the writer, and more often, they are completely unaware of the true nature of the story.
MARY SHELLEY 2017: AN ARTHOUSE FILM OF RARE COURAGE
Mary Shelley 2017, itself was probably never meant to be an epic drama. Instead, it draws us into quiet spaces that humanize the experiences of Mary and Percy, two people whose lives have often been romanticized through history, which feels fitting given they lived in what we now call the Romantic Era. From the opening scene, the story leads you through memory, intellect, and literature. At its heart, it introduces us to a kind of suffering that may feel distant in our modern world.
Voices That Hover Like Spirits
Narration is the film's secret weapon. Elle Fanning's Mary and Douglas Booth's Percy speak lines from letters and journals with such intimacy that they feel like personal confessions. Their words float through the film like echoes in an empty house. They never quite settle, but they are hard to ignore.
“Invention, it must be humbly admitted, does not consist in creating out of void but out of chaos.”
There is a scene in Mary Shelley where voiceover, music, and flickering images of Frankenstein’s creation seem to blur together, as if we are watching the story take shape in her mind. It feels haunted. Yet, this is a different kind of haunting. It begins to show us why Frankenstein was conceived at all, not to terrify, but to expose the quiet suffering of something brought into the world and abandoned.
It is impossible not to see the parallels. A society can turn its own people into monsters. A single person, out of fear or carelessness, can turn another into something unrecognizable. Even the tools we create, intended to help, can twist under abuse. Social media. Technology. AI. All are modern echoes of Frankenstein’s creature, born of human hands and left untended, misunderstood, or used for harm. Shelley’s story was never just about science. It was a warning about responsibility, for what we make, for how we treat it, and for the shadows it leaves behind.
The Girl Who Wrote Immortality
Nineteen is the age when most of us are still just beginning to find ourselves. It is an age of searching for some sense of who we are. At that age, we rarely think about loss, suffering, or the kind of disappointments that leave a mark. By nineteen, she had already lost a child. She had spent most of her young life mourning the mother she never got to know. And, of course, there was the scandal—whispers and condemnation that followed when she, in defiance of society, chose to be with Percy Bysshe Shelley.
That was the age when she wrote Frankenstein.
The novel’s beginning feels like legend now, its details a little foggy, as so much of history tends to be. It was the summer of 1816, remembered as “the year without a summer.” Mary, Percy, Lord Byron, and others were stranded indoors at Lake Geneva, their days and nights faced with unending rain. One evening, Byron challenged his guests to write ghost stories.
It came from more than a parlor game. It came from long suffering, disappointment, and a mind full of questions about neglect, about abuse, about the ways we create and abandon, and how those acts can change us forever.
Years later, she wrote of her strange affection for the creature:
“I bid my hideous progeny go forth and prosper. I have an affection for it, for it was the offspring of happy days, when death and grief were but words…”
But grief was never just words for Mary.
THE FILM THAT WAS LEFT BEHIND
Mary Shelley’s experience is reflected in her film adaptation. The movie premiered quietly and received polite reactions. It also faced some disappointment before fading away. Critics found it too slow and calm for modern viewers. However, this subtle approach might have been intentional.
This is not a film to watch and forget quickly. It invites viewers to stop and appreciate its details, similar to a gentle scent that remains after its source is gone. The film does not shout for attention; it requires a more thoughtful interaction. In this way, it offers something unique, a space for thought, feeling, and introspection.
THE HEART OF THE FILM
Haifaa al-Mansour's film does more than just present Mary Shelley; it strongly calls for acknowledgment, not just sympathy. It urges us to remember the young woman, who was both isolated and brilliant, as she wrote her thoughts alone.
Mary Shelley's legacy, like this film, was never meant to fade. However, being invisible does not mean being absent; just like her timeless creation, they remain silent and patient, waiting for recognition.
