James Whale made The Invisible Man only two years after Frankenstein, and comparisons are irresistible. Like Frankenstein, The Invisible Man is a burlesque masquerading as a cautionary thriller. The supposed message of both films--that scientists must not "meddle in things men should leave alone," a sentiment invoked three times in this outing--Whale clearly found risible. The real monster in both films is pride, in its ridiculous extreme.

Whale's surpassing gift was in leavening horror with dry comedy. The humor of Frankenstein was generally subtle, which cannot be said at least for bodyless trousers skipping down a lane singing "Here we go gathering nuts in May," driving before them a screaming villager. But Whale's comedy serves a purpose. Faster and better than exposition, these lighthearted moments invite the audience to identify with Griffin--for who, granted invisibility, would not play a few pranks? The audience can run amok alongside the miscreant, laughing with glee as he rides a bicycle or tosses an old man's cap into the pond. The intimacy gained brilliantly sets up the shock of Griffin's descent into madness.

Then-newcomer Claude Rains, memorable years later for his expressive face in Casablanca, here adroitly handles the challenge of performing without one. Another actor is colored in retrospect: Henry Travers, who plays Dr. Cranley, has the same homespun blitheness he'd bring to Clarence in It's a Wonderful Life. By contrast, William Harrigan, as Kemp, is completely unmemorable; his constant terror, surrounded as it is by the bemusement of all the others, marks him as a device rather than a character. Poor top-billed Gloria Stuart is given little to do but symbolize the "old" Griffin; she might as well have been a photo on the mantelpiece.

The special effects, remarkable for 1933, receive the highest praise: they are convincing without calling attention to themselves. Can today's SF blockbusters say that?