> Born in Dudley, England, director James Whale (1889-1957) held court in Hollywood during much of the 1930s as ringmaster of an extraordinary company of performers and writers who flourished at Universal Studios during its golden age of Gods and Monsters and beyond. One of Whale's most celebrated cinematic achievements of this era is, of course, 1933's The Invisible Man, which featured many of Whale's comrades in key roles. First, Whale tapped old friend and screenwriter R. C. Sherriff, who Whale had met and befriended in London years earlier when he directed Sherriff's groundbreaking play Journey's End. Sherriff provided Whale with a treatment that married the basic premise of H. G. Wells' celebrated novel with touches of egomania and madness as featured in Philip Wylie's The Murderer Invisible (which Universal had bought the rights for specifically to punch up Wells' work, which leaned more towards social commentary than sensationalistic horror). Wylie's contributions to the Invisible Man mythos have largely been forgotten, but he remains noted for his seminal work Gladiator, which Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster found inspiration in when they created perhaps the greatest pulp hero of the 20th century, SUPERMAN. Journey's End (1930) it should be noted, not only eventually led Whale to Hollywood, but also to its young lead, Colin Clive, who later gained international fame as Dr. Henry Frankenstein in Whale's twin masterpieces, 1931's Frankenstein and 1935's Bride of Frankenstein.

> Frankenstein was, of course, a massive hit for Whale, but it was a film filled with concessions to the studio and to the censors of the day. Film historians Paul M. Jenson and David J. Skal have both hypothesized that Whale utilized the The Invisible Man as a vehicle to rework the aspects of Frankenstein the director felt were foisted upon him, such as the studio demand for a tacked-on happy ending, and the survival of both mad scientist AND his best friend who not-so-secretly loves his fiancé (both of whom perish in The Invisible Man, leaving the forlorn fiancé quietly weeping in a bleak, distinctly UNhappy ending that is light years away from the happy toast to the house of Frankenstein just two years earlier). Ironically, Whale's most visible London stage colleague tapped for the production was of course actor Claude Rains, who was championed by the director in spite of studio fears based on an admittedly ghastly screen test Rains had made for RKO some time earlier. Whale tapped actress Gloria Stuart, who had just recently shone in Whale's The Old Dark House (1932) as the romantic lead, continuing their outstanding association. Whale rounded out his cast with a cavalcade of eccentric English performers, most notably actress Una O'Connor, the performer who, for good or ill, most likely represented his comically dark, campy sensibilities. Her over-the-top delivery and high-pitched screams resonate through The Invisible Man and Bride of Frankenstein as if to declare Whale's muse a kind of gangly banshee. Whale's trust in his stable of talent afforded him the luxury to both joust with studio brass and with the censors, while at the same time enjoying a level of autonomy and personal expression (due in no small part to his patronage by studio head Carl Laemmle, Jr.) that has seldom been rivaled in the history of cinema. The result, of course, was a body of work unique in its perspective, grandeur, almost operatically theatrical nature, and dark humor, a world of gothic sets and soaring cameras, precise art direction and decidedly affected performances. The works of James Whale resonate to this day, influencing creators both past and present.