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I often wonder about the rolling 30-year nostalgia wave and whether it will withstand the fragmentation of media brought on by the internet and self-directed media consumption. For decades, the resurgence of cultural trends has been somewhat predictable: a generation grows from childhood consumers of culture to adulthood producers, and their formative influences subsequently impress upon the next generation. For instance, growing up in the late 1980s, I was heavily steeped in boomer nostalgia—not only the '50s diner culture of "Happy Days" and the Stray Cats but also the revival of pre-code horror comics through HBO's "Tales from the Crypt," Stephen King's horror comic tribute, "Creepshow," and the boundary-pushing visuals of the slasher flick era. To be a child of the '80s, in a sense, is to be a secondhand child of the '50s.
The king of monster portraits
This cycle is intricately woven into portrait artist Basil Gogos’ relationship with the Universal Monsters, and monsters more generally. Growing up in Egypt in the '30s, Gogos experienced the initial releases of these films firsthand. In the '60s, as an adult painter, he played a pivotal role in their revival during the nascent days of TV syndication, creating iconic covers for "Famous Monsters of Filmland." Fast forward to the '90s, and we see devotees of Famous Monsters like Rob Zombie resurrecting his influence. And now, in the '20s, I find myself revisiting his work and reflecting on his legacy following his passing in 2017.
This perspective is crucial as it speaks not only to the ways in which a property like the Universal Monsters persists within culture and Gogos' role in its cyclical revival but also to the shifting dynamics of how Gogos himself engaged with the characters.
Empathy for the monster
If there's a formula to Gogos' work, it's the blend of an empathetic, child-like connection to the monsters with the respect any serious portrait artist would reserve for a revered subject. His 1969 oil painting of Boris Karloff as Frankenstein's Monster, created as an elegy, stands as a particularly poignant example. This portrait displays a forlorn quality often missing in more simplistic depictions. It conveys a sense of innocence and tragic self-awareness that Karloff imbued in the character—nuances that even director James Whale may not have completely appreciated, which Gogos skillfully immortalized on canvas.
Indeed, Karloff and Whale had a significant disagreement over the Monster's interaction with the film's young girl, Maria. Her drowning was instrumental to the plot, spurring the violent townspeople to hunt down the Monster. But while Whale insisted on a dramatic, overhead throw into the lake, Karloff advocated for a gentler, more deliberate action, reflective of how Maria tossed the flowers into the water. The resulting compromise was something in between: a somewhat awkward, underhanded toss. This turned out not to matter all that much: the scene ended up getting removed from theatrical screenings by censors, leaving it up to the audience to interpret the Monster's intent. But Gogos' tender renditions in his portraits clearly indicate where his sympathies lay.
This compassionate approach to the characters is a thread woven throughout his entire body of work. He clearly exhibits an interest in the motivations of the characters, & Frankenstein's Monster is as much a victim of circumstance as he is a perceived menace. Frightening, yes, but not because he chose the bolts in his neck or the stitched-together green skin.
Pure imagination
Yet, it was not solely Gogos' perspective on these characters that underscored his distinct talent. It was also his ability to infuse vibrant life into figures previously confined to the grayscale palette of '30s and '40s celluloid. Gogos’ portraits were not mere nostalgic reflections; they were reinventions. In his hands, the stark black and white film stills of the past were reimagined in vivid color, endowing them with a new dimensionality that transcended the original medium.
His distinctive style, akin to applying dramatic gel lighting to emphasize a character's personality, eventually came to define the genre of the monster portrait. For example, Gogos would later recall the startling trumpet blasts that played each time the Creature from the Black Lagoon emerged from the water. And he found ways through the use of dramatic color to capture that sense of shock in his portrait.
Granting immortality
In this manner, his pieces act as essential companions to the films, updating them for contemporary audiences in a manner far more evocative than any colorized re-release. It's plausible that the current batch of Universal remakes owes a debt to Gogos for keeping the characters relevant over these decades. His work accorded them a second and third life, a kind of immortality that extends well beyond their cinematic origins, allowing them to captivate new generations.
You can see Gogos' influence, for instance, in the marketing for "Renfield," a modern update to the Dracula story released in the wake of the "Dark Universe" failure. Since the Tom Cruise-led "the Mummy," which was intended to launch a shared universe for these characters in 2017, failed to meet box office expectations, Universal has grown lukewarm about producing new monster movies, even despite stars like Elizabeth Moss leading a critically acclaimed remake of the "Invisible Man" and Ryan Gosling being long attached to a "Wolfman" reboot. But with "Frankenstein" and "Dracula" set to enter the public domain in 2027, Universal's hesitation might open the door for others to reinterpret these classics.
Nostalgia in the digital age
This, then, raises a question: Will modern properties—those birthed in the digital age—resonate in public consciousness long enough to meaningfully expire, as the Universal Monsters are poised to? These iconic figures emerged during an era of limited entertainment options, a stark contrast to today's media landscape, saturated with endless choices. But the wide recognition of contemporary properties is often limited to legacy franchises with 20th-century origins, such as Star Wars, Marvel superheroes, and Beyoncé. It appears, then, increasingly improbable that newer characters, like Sam from "Trick 'r Treat" or Patrick Bateman, will find a champion akin to Gogos in the 2030s, particularly as entertainment evolves into ephemeral experiences like online gaming and social media, complicating the launch of new properties into a crowded market. It's possible these characters never achieved the critical mass of recognition required for a revival to begin with, darkening their long term prospects.
Moreover, the cadence of nostalgia has shifted. Previously, the nostalgia cycle was paced by the career trajectories within studios, networks, or publications. But as content creation democratizes, nostalgia floods our cultural landscape, pressuring studios to constantly reboot properties. For example, the past two decades have seen three distinct live-action "Spider-Man" franchises. This dynamic erodes the traditional nostalgia waves, replacing them with a perpetual spotlight on profitable properties and the sidelining of all else.
As we find ourselves currently immersed in 1990s nostalgia, one must wonder about the 2040s. If superhero films and "Star Wars" spin-offs from the 2010s continue to dominate unabated, what will anyone have nostalgia for? And what impact will the loss of these "between" periods—moments for reflection and the germination of new ideas—ultimately mean for culture?
Fostering reinvention
One such property that has benefitted from the eb and flow of relevance is Gogos' beloved Frankenstein. It's unique in that while Universal tightly controls its iconic visual representation, Mary Shelley's original story has been in the public domain for some time, fostering a broad range of reinterpretations. In Jordan Peele's "Get Out," Dr. Dean Armitage transplants the minds of wealthy old white people into young, black bodies, auctioning off his daughter's boyfriends and girlfriends to the highest bidder and spotlighting how black bodies are commoditized by society. In Yorgos Lanthimos' "Poor Things," Dr. Godwin Baxter transplants the brain of a baby into its dying mother's body, resulting in her speed-running childhood through adulthood and dealing with the full spectrum of men's often toxic ways of relating to women on this compressed timeline. These critically acclaimed films offer fresh analyses on race and gender, still rooted in the original themes of toying with the power of God, self-determination, and alienation yet distinctly updated for today's audiences. These adaptations underscore the creative potential when stories simmer in public consciousness, guided by filmmakers genuinely invested in the material.
By contrast, Tom Cruise's take on "The Mummy" was a high-octane action spectacle, bearing more similarity to the current wave of superhero movies than to its predecessors, particularly the original films led by Karloff. Critics lambasted it for missing the essence of the tale, choosing instead to retrofit the story into a typical, large-scale Tom Cruise project. It was readily apparent that the filmmakers' love lied with large scale, wise-cracking, stunt-heavy action films, not the titular franchise itself. And this may as well describes studios' general approach to modern, nostalgia-baiting franchise entries; Universal's aim was to mimic Marvel and DC.
In other words, nostalgia has heretofore mostly influenced culture and products naturally. It is increasingly, however, being weaponized to boost profitability. Properties are less and less often enriched by nostalgia; more frequently they're simply simply recycled to diminishing returns.
Critics like Mark Fisher have underscored nostalgia's adverse effects on envisioning new futures. Yet, Basil Gogos' perspective on these characters reveals something invaluable: sometimes it can take 30 years for an artist to forge a unique bond with a subject and the skills to masterfully express this relationship. As we wade through this deluge of memberberries and reboots, Gogos' legacy highlights the need to pause and contemplate our cultural legacy, ensuring we preserve the space for new works and appreciate the nuanced depictions of our cherished characters without succumbing to the relentless pursuit of monetizing recognizable properties.
Jon W. Cole is a graphic designer / developer based in Atlanta. His interests are corn syrup & esoterica. He has yet to take down his Christmas tree or remove his Bernie Sanders For President license plate.