I recently created a fanvid putting Queen’s “You’re My Best Friend,” to clips of (mostly) the famous scene in James Whale’s Bride of Frankenstein, in which the monster meets a blind hermit and the two become friends. This was a strange experience for me because, despite having seen the film many times and already holding a fondness for that scene, somehow as I began working with it, taking it apart, and rearranging it, it became even more touching to me than it had been.

In the scene, the monster, which has been hunted down, assumed to be killed in a fire, and hunted down again, has finally escaped humanity to the sanctuary of the woods, but even here he can’t find peace, as he comes across one group of people after another who either attack him or run off horrified. Eventually he is attracted to a cabin by the music of a violin coming from within. Inside he finds perhaps the only human who could befriend him: a blind man with no friends of his own. The hermit eagerly accepts the monster, cries out of thankfulness, and teaches him the simple pleasures of life until two hunters enter, attack the monster, and cause the cabin to be burned down in the ensuing scuffle.

This is a curious scene because its effectiveness does not rely on directorial or cinematographic flourishes, as contrasted with the expressionistic bulk of the film. It is as if Whale wanted to tell this part of the story as honestly as possible, allowing the occasion to speak for itself. Its effectiveness is the product of the orchestration of the plot point combined with the believability of the acting, mostly that of Boris Karloff, as the monster. Whale has created a situation in which the two most desperate characters imaginable happen to be the only two that could accept each other, so their chance meeting is like the sudden nourishment of two starving creatures. With this setup, the simple crying and praying of the old man is moving enough, but the mixture of sadness and happiness is magnified by his violin. The hermit begins by playing what must be the perfect choice of music, “Ave Maria,” a song that evokes not outright glee but contentment. Once his friendship with the monster has been established, he plays more lighthearted, fun music. These songs complement the emotional progression of the scene, from somber to happy, and they pervade the scene literally, gaining an immediacy unachievable by a score.

Karloff’s acting elevates the scene from genuinely sad to masterful. The monster bounces to the sound of music, waves his arms out of happiness, and smiles like an infant, not with the intention of expressing his joy but out of an involuntary response to finally experiencing acceptance. When the old man lays the monster down to rest and ends up holding the creature and crying, the monster’s own crying in response is a masterstroke. The creature likely has no idea why he’s crying or why the man is so happy; nevertheless, he feels something that he has never felt. Somehow, some primordial urge from deep within his conglomeration of body parts tells him to pat the man’s back for comfort, and he does so.

The scene is violently interrupted when two hunters come in, see the monster, scuffle with it, and inadvertently burn down the blind man’s house in the process. As quickly as the two characters find friendship, it is taken away -- a frank reminder of the ephemeral nature of joy. From here the film returns to its expressionism and its dismal view of the world as a place ruled by madmen and violent urges. The scene stands as an oasis in a desert of tension, confusion, and hostility.