Rejected Unions: Rituals of Belonging in Monstrous Creations and Pagan Rites

In the shadowed labs and sunlit meadows, humanity’s deepest longing for connection twists into nightmare.

Two films, separated by decades and styles, yet bound by a primal terror: the horror of enforced belonging. James Whale’s 1935 masterpiece resurrects the Frankenstein myth with a bride whose brief existence shatters illusions of companionship, while Ari Aster’s 2019 descent into Swedish paganism reveals rituals that devour the outsider in pursuit of communal bliss. This comparison unearths how both wield ritual as a double-edged blade, carving out themes of isolation, creation, and the monstrous price of acceptance.

• The laboratory birth and meadow sacrifice parallel as ultimate acts of forced union, exposing the fragility of human bonds.
• Performances of the rejected—Elsa Lanchester’s electric bride and Florence Pugh’s unraveling Dani—embody the scream of otherness amid collective ecstasy.
• From gothic expressionism to folk horror realism, these films evolve the monster archetype into a critique of belonging’s dark underbelly.

The Laboratory’s Lonely Spark

James Whale’s The Bride of Frankenstein picks up where its predecessor left off, thrusting Victor Frankenstein back into the abyss of creation. Shelley’s novel, already a cornerstone of gothic horror, expands here into a symphony of sound and shadow. The monster, portrayed with poignant pathos by Boris Karloff, wanders a world that brands him abomination. His plea for a mate echoes the folklore of golems and homunculi—artificial beings cursed by incomplete souls. Whale, fresh from the original’s success, infuses this sequel with operatic flair, blending horror with mordant humour.

Dr. Pretorius, a diabolical mentor played by Ernest Thesiger, coerces Victor into animating a bride. The ritual unfolds in a towering laboratory, lightning cracking like divine judgement. Elsa Lanchester’s bride awakens in a blaze of electricity, her towering hairdo and hissed rejection—”No… good!”—cementing one of cinema’s most iconic scenes. This is no mere sequel; it reimagines the Promethean fire as a social experiment gone awry, where belonging demands perfection unattainable by the stitched-together.

Contrast this with Midsommar, where Ari Aster transplants the ritual to the sun-drenched commune of Hårga. Dani, grieving a family massacre by her bipolar sister, clings to boyfriend Christian amid a faltering relationship. Their invitation to a Swedish midsummer festival masks a year-long ceremonial cycle rooted in pseudo-folkloric traditions. Aster draws from European pagan revivals, blending Maypole dances with bloodier rites like the ättestupa—elders leaping to their deaths for communal renewal.

The film’s horror simmers in daylight, subverting nocturnal expectations. Christian’s infidelity during a fertility feast parallels Victor’s coerced creation; both men sire new life to appease a greater design. Dani’s arc mirrors the bride’s: from outsider to queen, yet hollowed by the cost. Where Whale’s storm-lit tower isolates, Aster’s floral fields ensnare, revealing belonging as a communal monster devouring the self.

Rites of Rejection

Central to both narratives lies the ritual of rejection, a motif tracing back to ancient myths of sacrificial scapegoats. In The Bride, the monster’s blind date implodes when the bride recoils from her intended, her bandaged form evoking mummified relics unfit for life. This moment, captured in Whale’s expressionist angles—distorted sets, dramatic chiaroscuro—symbolises the eternal outsider. Karloff’s monster, with his flat head and neck bolts, embodies the industrial age’s fear of the man-made other, his fire-ending suicide a mercy from a world that denies kinship.

Aster flips this into Midsommar‘s protracted ceremonies. The blood eagle sacrifice of two elders sets a tone of ecstatic violence, participants wailing in orchestrated grief. Christian, drugged and paired with Maja in a sex rite, becomes the May Queen consort—his floral burial alive echoing the bride’s aborted union. Florence Pugh’s performance crescendos from suppressed sobs to triumphant shrieks, her belonging forged in trauma’s forge. The film’s 147-minute runtime allows rituals to unfold with ethnographic detail, drawing from Strindbergian folk tales and modern cult psychology.

Both films interrogate the feminine monstrous. Lanchester’s bride, screeching atop her pedestal, rejects not just the groom but patriarchal engineering. Dani’s crowning amid pyre flames elevates her from victim to priestess, yet at what erasure of self? These women, products of male ambition, invert the damsel trope into agents of disruption, their rituals underscoring horror’s evolution from physical deformity to psychological assimilation.

Productionally, Whale battled Universal’s censorship, toning down blasphemy while amplifying camp—his openly gay perspective infusing queer subtexts of forbidden desire. Aster, influenced by his own familial losses, crafts Midsommar as grief therapy turned cult initiation, its practical effects—realistic bear suit immolation—grounding the surreal in visceral terror.

Monstrous Communities

Folklore underpins these horrors: Frankenstein’s creature descends from Jewish golem legends and alchemical brides, while Hårga evokes Wiccan revivals and Midsummer’s Night fertility cults. Whale bridges silent era expressionism to talkies, his film’s score by Franz Waxman pioneering leitmotifs for monstrosity. The blind hermit’s violin duet with the monster humanises the beast, a fleeting belonging shattered by intrusion—foreshadowing Dani’s hallucinatory dances amid Hårga’s harmonies.

In Midsommar, the commune’s runes and tapestries encode generational trauma, rituals cycling every 90 years like a monstrous heartbeat. Christian’s selection as sacrifice, his body stuffed in a gutted bear, parodies taxidermy akin to Victor’s corpse-patching. Both narratives posit community as the true Frankenstein: assembling parts into a whole that consumes individuality.

Visually, Whale’s gothic spires contrast Aster’s wide-angle blooms, yet both employ symmetry for dread—the bride’s double rejection framed centrally, Dani’s face split by firelight. Makeup artistry shines: Jack Pierce’s iconic designs for Karloff and Lanchester endure, while Midsommar‘s prosthetics for ritual wounds blend seamlessly, heightening realism’s unease.

Thematic depth reveals belonging’s evolutionary horror. From 1930s depression-era alienation to millennial disconnection, these films warn that rituals, whether scientific or pagan, promise unity at the expense of autonomy. The bride’s spark dies unborn; Dani’s smile amid ashes masks perpetual mourning.

Legacy of the Outcast Flame

The Bride of Frankenstein birthed Universal’s monster rally era, influencing Hammer revivals and Tim Burton’s gothic whimsy. Its camp legacy permeates Young Frankenstein and Van Helsing, while queer readings flourish in modern scholarship. Aster acknowledges Whale obliquely, his folk horror echoing the sequel’s humanism amid horror.

Midsommar revitalises the subgenre post-The Witch, spawning ‘elevated horror’ discourse. Its communal dread resonates in pandemic isolation reflections, rituals now viewed through social media cults. Together, they evolve the monster from solitary brute to embedded in rites that demand surrender.

Critically, Whale’s film scored Oscar nods for sound, its wit softening terror. Aster’s Palme d’Or contender divides on length, yet Pugh’s rawness earns acclaim. Both challenge viewers: is belonging worth monstrosity?

Director in the Spotlight

James Whale, born in 1889 in Dudley, England, rose from working-class roots to theatrical prominence before Hollywood beckoned. Serving in World War I, he endured imprisonment and lifelong pacifism, shaping his cynical worldview. His West End triumphs with Journey’s End (1929) led to directing the 1930 film version, earning Oscar acclaim and Universal’s attention.

Whale helmed the horror cycle: Frankenstein (1931), revolutionising the genre with Boris Karloff; The Old Dark House (1932), a ensemble chiller; The Invisible Man (1933), Claude Rains’ voice-driven tour de force; and Bride of Frankenstein (1935), his subversive pinnacle blending horror, comedy, and autobiography. Post-horrors, he directed musicals like Show Boat (1936) with Paul Robeson, and dramas such as The Road Back (1937), a WWI sequel clashing with Nazis.

Retiring in 1941 amid health woes and grief over lover David Lewis, Whale painted and socialised in Hollywood’s gay circles. His influence spans expressionist visuals—inspired by German cinema like Caligari—and outsider empathy, evident in monsters’ plights. Later works include Port of Seven Seas (1938), a Marseilles melodrama; The Man in the Iron Mask (1939), swashbuckler with Louis Hayward; and Green Hell (1940), jungle adventure starring Douglas Fairbanks Jr.

Whale’s suicide in 1957, ruled accidental drowning, inspired Bill Condon’s Gods and Monsters (1998), with Ian McKellen embodying his twilight. His oeuvre—over 20 films—prioritised style, humanism, and rebellion, cementing him as horror’s flamboyant architect. Influences from Noël Coward and Murnau fused with personal queerness yield timeless, layered classics.

Actor in the Spotlight

Elsa Lanchester, born Elizabeth Sullivan in 1902 London, embodied bohemian spirit from youth. Daughter of pacifist parents, she trained at the Central School of Speech and Training, marrying Charles Laughton in 1929 amid scandalous bisexuality rumours. Stage successes in The Taming of the Shrew preceded Hollywood migration.

Her breakout: the Bride in The Bride of Frankenstein (1935), a seven-minute role etched in eternity—hiss, hair, horror icon. Laughton’s influence secured parts, yet typecasting loomed. Notable: Rembrandt (1936) as Geertje; Vessel of Wrath (1938), reuniting with Laughton; Come to the Stable (1949), Oscar-nominated nun; Witness for the Prosecution (1957), fiery cross-examiner.

Lanchester’s career spanned 60+ years: The Spiral Staircase (1946) murderess; Bell, Book and Candle (1958) witch; Disney’s Mary Poppins (1964) Nanny; Arnold (1973) killer doll voice; Murder by Death (1976) comic turn. Awards included Golden Globe noms, Theatre World for stage revues. Post-Laughton’s 1962 death, she shone in cabaret, memoirs like Elsa Lanchester Herself (1983) revealing bisexuality.

Dying 1986 aged 84, her legacy endures in cult stardom, voice work (The Sword in the Stone, 1963), and influence on strong, eccentric women— from Frankenstein‘s spark to enduring mischief.

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