Victor Frankenstein is still alive in the modern age.
It's a delicious premise, one that forms the backbone of Dean Koontz's Frankenstein, a five-part literary serial that first saw publication in 2005. Originally conceived as a television production (and subsequently relegated to that cinematic graveyard where many Koontz adaptations have gone to die), the project underwent several incarnations and collaborations before the author eventually assumed sole responsibility for the saga. What remains is an ambitious reimagining of one of literature's most enduring myths, transplanted into a modern world where the ethical boundaries of science have become increasingly blurred.
New Orleans is our backdrop: the heat, humidity, and moonlight like a fever dream. Here we meet detectives Carson O'Connor and Michael Maddison, two cops pursuing a serial killer dubbed The Surgeon, whose penchant for removing the anatomical components of his victims suggests a purpose beyond mere psychopathic gratification. Their investigation will ultimately lead them into territory where conventional police work becomes redundant.
Elsewhere, Victor Frankenstein himself has survived the intervening centuries, adopting the moniker Victor Helios and using the technological marvels of the twenty-first century to further his original ambitions. No longer content with assembling a solitary creature, Victor now envisages an entirely new race, manufactured to supersede humanity itself. His original creation, meanwhile, has also endured. Calling himself Deucalion, the once-monstrous entity has spent two hundred years observing mankind, acquiring something his creator has conspicuously failed to grasp: an understanding of the human condition. Though physically and psychologically scarred, Deucalion is perhaps the most humane character inhabiting these pages. And he regards his maker as an enemy whose continued existence can no longer be tolerated.
For me, the most gratifying aspect of Prodigal Son is its resemblance to Koontz's earlier novel Midnight. Once again we have a megalomaniacal figure operating under the delusion of godhood, using the advances of modern technology to facilitate a new evolutionary order. The similarities are striking, although the canvas here is considerably broader. Where Midnight concerned itself with the transformation of an isolated community, Frankenstein envisages something more apocalyptic: the systematic replacement of the human species. And underpinning everything is that familiar philosophical conundrum regarding scientific progress and the moral obligations of those who wield it.
The prose is crisp, svelte, and economical. There is little of the occasionally purple introspection that has characterized the author’s other work. Instead, the narrative moves with cinematic precision, shifting between disparate characters and gradually revealing the machinery of Victor's grand design. Also refreshing is the author's willingness to embrace the more brutal aspects of horror. Here, the bloodletting is considerably more pronounced than readers might expect, occasionally straying into territory occupied by the extreme horror movement. The grotesqueries are not merely ornamental, however; they serve to illustrate the fundamental obscenity of Victor's enterprise.
Perhaps most importantly, the mythology inherited from Shelley is treated with reverence. Rather than simply appropriating a familiar monster for commercial purposes, Koontz and Anderson appear interested in the very questions that made the original novel enduring. What constitutes humanity? Is consciousness itself sufficient to bestow a soul? And when a creator abandons his creation, who ultimately deserves the designation of monster? These are not new questions, but their relevance has scarcely diminished in the two centuries since Shelley first committed her nightmare to paper.
If I could level a criticism, it would concern our investigating couple. Carson and Maddison are engaging enough, but their banter feels too polished, their reactions too perfectly orchestrated. This has long been a grievance of mine with Koontz's protagonists: an almost pathological inclination to endow his heroes with impeccable wit, moral fortitude, and the ability to deliver precisely the right observation at precisely the right time. Real people, unfortunately, are seldom so obliging. In a narrative populated by artificial humans, there is a certain irony in finding the ordinary ones occasionally less convincing.
Nevertheless, Prodigal Son is an entertaining resurrection of a familiar legend. Beneath the machinery, mutilation, and technological grandiosity lies a surprisingly poignant meditation on loneliness, identity, and the desire to belong. Deucalion, for all his deformities, embodies the very qualities Victor seeks to eradicate from his new world: compassion, humility, and the capacity for moral choice.
Two hundred years after his unnatural birth, Frankenstein's monster is still searching for his place among men. His creator, meanwhile, has learned nothing.
And therein lies the real horror.
