The Invisible Man (1933)

The Invisible Man (1933) is a mad scientist science fiction invisibility-themed Universal horror classic monsters franchise series franchise commencement classic of pre-Code cinema, horror, formative science fiction adventure and escapade drama adaptation of a classic grotesque romance novel from the late 1890s, speculating on the individual and social ramifications of a crazed and powerful narrative fantasy of invisibility.

In a crummy British village populated by simple superstitious beer loving vaudevillians there is a sudden and genuine spooking as dramatic imagery blasts across the snow stormed screen and a demanding and aristocratic stranger in wrap appears as some kind of local uber mensch among the peasants, settling himself in an inn in one of the best openings in cinema, one of the best of the 1930s, one of the best of all decades indeed.

Mad scientist yes, but also the focus of an incredible new range of special effects, all strangely tempered with the humour of having discovered these marvels for the fist time.

Invisible for the first time, humanity seems content with running around waving its arms and singing Nuts in May and other daftie ephemera. This movie has the most marvellous scene change from room to room also, when the camera moves across a studio partition, and the actors use a door, built into the nearby set.

The set indeed which is decorated by flowers, because what maketh a pretty room, and how to dress, complete and fill the screen area created by these Hollywood sets. Their created England is a funny kinda crazed and simple pasty decorated Euroshabby place, village like in its simplicity, an early iteration of the softness of the darker uberwald of the Lon Chaney Wolfman years.

The snowy sound stage in The Invisible Man (1933)

So indeed, the invisible man is a quintessential uber typical mad scientist, being a scientist with mad ideas, who is driven mad by his findings, prosaically mad, jumping mad and violent, 

James Whale's The Invisible Man (1933) occupies a singular position in the pantheon of early American horror cinema. While its narrative is rooted in H. G. Wells's 1897 novella, the film adapts and reimagines its source with startling theatricality, potent psychological insight, and revolutionary technical invention. 

Local yokels in crummy Olde Englande in The Invisible Man (1933)

Emerging from Universal Pictures during a period of creative audacity and experimentation, Whale's adaptation confronts the viewer with a protagonist who is neither beast nor mythic ghoul, but a human intellect unmoored from physical consequence and moral restraint. Unlike the monstrous figures of Frankenstein or Dracula, the titular character here is rendered monstrous not by transformation, but by liberation—the removal of flesh liberating a will to dominate that has always lurked beneath the surface of propriety.

Claude Rains, in his first American screen performance, offers a voice performance of rare ingenuity. His physical absence becomes a defining presence, a paradox that lends the film much of its uncanny allure. 

With a performance reduced to vocalization and the occasional gestural pantomime through layers of gauze and bandage, Rains produces a theatricality that is both florid and fearsome. That such an indelible portrait of mania and ego should be conveyed without the actor's visage is a testament to the performative ingenuity that Whale, a director always attuned to theatricality, cultivated across his work.

The film begins with the Invisible Man already in full possession of his powers, a narrative decision that subverts the traditional arc of scientific inquiry and tragic overreach. Instead, Whale presents a man in media res—already transformed, already damned. The pub in the village of Iping, where Griffin first appears, serves as a bourgeois bastion of small-minded conformity, over which the invisible intellect proceeds to run riot. 

What begins as comic disruption soon escalates into murder, and finally, into grandiose declarations of world domination. The escalation is smooth, its tonal shifts subtly orchestrated by Whale’s steady directorial hand. The mayhem, at first slapstick and whimsical, curdles into cold, casual cruelty.

Whale's thematic obsessions are on full display here: the alienated individual, the misunderstood genius, the tragic queer figure cloaked in metaphor and menace. The director, himself a homosexual in an era of suffocating repression, found in Griffin an archetype of transgressive difference. 

Unlike Henry Frankenstein, who is horrified by the unnaturalness of his creation, Griffin is exultant. Bonkers with it he dances and becomes apparently very strong. The village come up with lots of ways to catch him, using ink, and smoke, and snow. His desire to dominate is not a side effect of his invisibility serum; it is the point. The invisibility merely removes the final barrier between desire and action, between repression and enactment.

The political climate of 1933, the year of the film's release, cannot be discounted. In Germany, Adolf Hitler had ascended to power; in America, Franklin D. Roosevelt was taking office amid economic ruin. A man who seeks to impose his will upon the world, by stealth, through terror, and in violation of all moral boundaries, seems eerily prescient in such a context. 

Griffin’s grandiose proclamations of a "reign of terror" evoke the rise of fascistic ideologies, even if the film never explicitly alludes to them. Whale’s Griffin is not merely mad—he is a megalomaniac, bent on supremacy through fear, and the world’s inability to perceive him mirrors its failure to understand the forces destabilizing it.

Iconic serviette work in The Invisible Man (1933)

A feminist reading of The Invisible Man must contend with the absence of female agency within the narrative. Gloria Stuart, as Flora, functions almost entirely as a vestigial echo of traditional romantic subplots. Her love, we are told, might redeem Griffin; her presence might coax him back to sanity. But this hope is illusory. 

Unlike Elizabeth in Frankenstein, who at least participates in the drama through fear and implication, Flora exists merely to react, to entreat, to represent the domestic stability that Griffin rejects outright. The film’s female characters, most notably Una O’Connor’s shrill innkeeper, are drawn for comedy and chaos, not sympathy or strength.

In this regard, the film echoes the gender dynamics of the time, relegating women to the margins of a narrative preoccupied with male intellect, ambition, and destruction.

The special effects remain a marvel, not only of ingenuity but of collaboration. John P. Fulton's visual wizardry, combined with Ted Kent’s editing and Charles D. Hall’s production design, creates an illusion of transparency that still astonishes. Shot against black velvet and matted into live-action scenes, Rains’s body—wrapped in bandages or entirely invisible—interacts with the physical world in ways that seem to defy the limitations of 1930s technology. 

One of the oddest room and scene changes in all cinema occurs in The Invisible Man (1933)

Whale treats these effects not as novelty but as integral elements of the narrative. The physicality of Griffin's absence is emphasized at every turn: his footprints in the snow, his breath made visible in cold air, the floating cigarette.

And yet the most chilling element of the film is not its technical bravado but its moral nihilism. There is no redemption for Griffin, no realization of wrong, no arc of return. His final words, delivered as his body slowly becomes visible in death, speak of having meddled in forces man was not meant to know. 

But this boilerplate sentiment cannot erase the film’s true trajectory, which is not one of warning but of fascination. The audience is made complicit in Griffin’s madness, delighted by his chaos, thrilled by his rebellion against a mundane, overregulated world.

The subsequent entries in Universal’s Invisible Man cycle, beginning with The Invisible Man Returns (1940), pale in comparison. Joe May’s sequel is competently assembled but lacks the thematic richness and tonal audacity of Whale’s original. 

Set dressing big on flowers for The Invisible Man (1933)

Vincent Price, whose mellifluous voice would later define numerous horror classics, lends a degree of elegance to the proceedings. But the narrative—a wrongful accusation, a desperate escape, a mystery unravelled—demands a heroic protagonist, and Price is never afforded the opportunity to descend into madness. The film moralizes where its predecessor revelled in ambiguity. It plays safe, and in so doing, becomes forgettable.

By the time the character arrives in The Invisible Woman (1940), the transformation is complete: from gothic horror to domestic comedy. A. Edward Sutherland’s film is notable only for the waning presence of John Barrymore, whose decline lends the proceedings a melancholy gravity they do not otherwise possess.

This descent into farce continues with Invisible Agent (1942), a wartime propaganda effort in which invisibility becomes a weapon for democracy. Here, the notion of the mad scientist is scrubbed clean, replaced by noble espionage and patriotic romance. Peter Lorre, always a reliable grotesque, is wasted in a caricatured role, and Jon Hall’s hero is inert and charmless. What had been subversive becomes sanitized, made fit for mass consumption in the service of national myth-making.

A brief flicker of life appears in The Invisible Man’s Revenge (1944), in which Hall returns, this time cast as a vengeful man driven to extremes. Ford Beebe’s direction injects a degree of menace absent from the other sequels, and the presence of John Carradine lends an appropriately gothic air. 

But even here, the narrative mechanics are rote, and the moral certainties reassert themselves with dreary inevitability. The invisibility serum, once a metaphor for unchecked desire and psychological unravelling, is reduced to a mere plot device.

The final instalment, Abbott and Costello Meet the Invisible Man (1950), confirms the character’s descent into parody. Charles Lamont’s direction is brisk, the comic duo’s rapport as reliable as ever, but the film cannot escape the sense of necrophilia: it is playing with a corpse, prodding the remnants of a once-radical idea for cheap laughs. And yet, in its affectionate irreverence, it does more honor to Whale’s original than the somber, sanitized sequels.

That The Invisible Man remains a singular achievement is no accident. It is not merely a film about a man who cannot be seen; it is a film that refuses to look away from what such a condition reveals. Invisibility, in Whale’s hands, is not an escape but an exposure—of vanity, of cruelty, of the fragile constraints that bind civilization. 

Griffin, unmoored from visibility, becomes the truest reflection of a culture drunk on its own potential. What Griffin desires is not invisibility but omnipotence. He wants to be above judgment, above restraint, above humanity itself. That this vision should emerge from a studio horror picture, released in a year of political cataclysm, speaks to the genre’s latent capacity for philosophical inquiry.

In the broader history of the United States, The Invisible Man articulates the dangers of unexamined power and the perils of isolating the intellect from the moral compass. In the era of the Great Depression, when structures of trust and social cohesion were collapsing, the film speaks to the volatility of genius without compassion. 

Griffin is not an aberration; he is a symptom—of ambition without responsibility, science without ethics, freedom without accountability. He is, in the truest sense, the American shadow: brilliant, brazen, unchecked.

Film noir would soon emerge as the dominant style of psychological cinema, and Whale’s film, though predating the genre, anticipates many of its hallmarks. The chiaroscuro lighting, the protagonist’s descent into madness, the moral ambivalence, the fatalistic tone—all are present here.

Griffin is, in essence, the prototype of the noir anti-hero: clever, self-justifying, driven by an interior logic that the world cannot penetrate. His voice, echoing from nowhere, is the voice of film noir before the term had been coined: cynical, alienated, obsessed with control.

In The Invisible Man, James Whale crafts a masterpiece of psychological horror and black comedy that is as intellectually provocative as it is cinematically innovative. It remains the definitive adaptation of Wells’s novel, not because it is faithful to the letter, but because it understands the spirit of the source: the terrifying implications of freedom without form, and the enduring truth that what cannot be seen may still destroy us.

So this unsighted slight and unsightly nightly mess of nothing seen and floating cigarettes and shocked villagers gawping and running in vaudevillian circles around dining tables was prefigured in the waking minds of those who read the lobby cards and advertisements with the following close tags of delight intended to entice as follows:

Catch me if you can!

H.G. Wells' Fantastic Sensation

H.G. Wells' Fantastic Out Of This World Show!

You'll hardly believe what your eyes won't see (Print Ad- Republican-Press, ((Salamanca , NY)) 10 January 1934)

HE'S HERE-HE'S THERE HE'S EVERYWHERE! CATCH HIM IF YOU CAN! (Print Ad-Syracuse Journal, ((Syracuse NY)) 8 December 1933)

Few works stand as resolutely defiant of sober examination and temperate reflective analysis, genre, and expectation as the crazed up movie we know and love and refer to as James Whale’s The Invisible Man (1933). 

Adapted with liberal invention from H.G. Wells’s 1897 novel, the film emerges not merely as a horror landmark, nor only a science-fiction prototype, but as a hybrid of psychological drama, political metaphor, and subversive comedy—delivered with a visual audacity that still baffles and delights.

Though Whale’s name is eternally chained to his pair of Frankenstein films, it is The Invisible Man that reveals, most completely, his aesthetic audacity, tonal elasticity, and capacity for structural mischief. The result is a film whose madcap brilliance mirrors the madness of its protagonist and one whose technical achievement upends any nostalgic condescension toward pre-digital cinema.

Released at the nadir of the Great Depression, The Invisible Man is steeped in the anxiety of the era—a period in which technological ambition and human desperation collided with staggering frequency. Franklin D. Roosevelt had just assumed the presidency; his New Deal was in infancy. The Dust Bowl had begun to desiccate the Great Plains. Banks collapsed. Unemployment soared. Against this background of widespread social disintegration, Whale offered a tale in which a scientist, unmoored from moral ballast, sets out to “make the world grovel” before him. 

The metaphor is conspicuous: unchecked ambition, whether corporate, governmental, or scientific, results in a derangement of ethics. The invisible man is capitalism in its purest, most sociopathic form: faceless, unaccountable, omnipotent, and maniacal.

The narrative that it is, the story in and of these facts and the narrative as the slightly larger scheme of social telling, makes an effort to tell of  a certain Dr. Jack Griffin, a chemist of obscure origin and limitless hubris, who has discovered a serum that renders the body imperceptible. The catch is both narrative and metaphysical—the drug also strips the mind of its final scruples. 

He becomes psychotic not through a slow accretion of grievance, but almost instantly, as though the act of disappearing from view liberates his Id entirely. It is the most violent rendition imaginable of Emerson’s dictum that “character teaches above our wills.” Griffin’s character, once unfettered from the strictures of visibility, transforms into pure appetite.

Claude Rains, in his first major screen role, gives a performance of perverse delicacy. With his physical presence withheld for all but a few seconds of the final shot, Rains is compelled to conduct his performance through voice alone. What results is not mere narration but incantation. The voice slithers, shouts, soothes, and snarls. 

Its timbre modulates like a musical instrument. In it one hears grandeur, lunacy, narcissism, and theatrical glee. That this was Rains’ breakthrough is ironic—he became iconic precisely through absence. Few debuts in American cinema have been more sonically complete.

Technically, the film belongs to that rarest class of cinematic works: those whose effects provoke awe not despite their age, but because of it. John P. Fulton’s visual sleights—the floating glasses, the smoking cigarette with no mouth, the empty shirt dancing to “Here We Go Gathering Nuts in May”—remain uncanny in their effectiveness. 

There is a tactile realism to these illusions that modern digital effects, with all their pixelated sterility, rarely achieve. Here, spectacle is bound to physical reality; it obeys gravity, light, texture. One is less dazzled than disturbed: how can the world accommodate such breaches of its own logic?

Whale, always a stylist of perverse elegance, fuses these effects into the diegesis without excess. His direction is never in service to technology alone. Instead, the camera glides and peeks with sly, voyeuristic interest. His eye is theatrical, yes, but never stagy. He frames Griffin’s entrances and exits not with bombast but with eerie nonchalance—doors open without cause, footprints appear in snow, chaos erupts from an empty space. The camera, like the viewer, searches for a man it cannot find.

Yet it is not the spectacle that lifts The Invisible Man into the realm of enduring cultural artifact, but its tone: a manic, schizophrenic blend of horror and comedy. The terror of a man deranged is never allowed to settle into solemnity. Instead, Whale treats Griffin’s violence with a kind of sardonic mischief. A train derailment is described with gory detail, and then followed by scenes of invisible trousers skipping down the street. 

A policeman is mocked before being murdered. Even death arrives with a laugh. This is not tonal confusion; it is deliberate counterpoint. Whale, a gay man in a heteronormative Hollywood, was long accustomed to navigating multiple registers. His humor is not an escape from horror but a lens through which it is rendered more perverse.

In another manner, trusty viewers note, the film betrays its limitations with weary predictability. Gloria Stuart’s Flora Cranley, the sole female figure of narrative consequence, is less a character than a device. She is present to humanize Griffin, to render him tragic in retrospect, and to provide the film a tattered banner of heteronormative redemption. 

But she is granted no agency, no scientific curiosity, no moral position. She weeps, she pleads, she obeys. That she is excluded from the intellectual world of Griffin and his colleagues is not a narrative oversight—it is the world the film reproduces without comment. The invisible man is feared; the visible woman is sidelined. Therein lies the most disturbing revelation: even when the monstrous male is stripped of form, the woman remains trapped in hers.

And yet, within the broader context of American history, The Invisible Man provides a dark mirror to the nation’s infatuation with unchecked genius and individuality. In the wake of the Roaring Twenties’ economic high, and amidst the Depression’s cruel hangover, the notion of the self-made man—brilliant, uncompromising, alone—had acquired both romantic allure and cautionary weight.

Griffin is the apotheosis of the American inventor: ambitious, isolated, disdainful of regulation. That he descends into megalomania is no accident. He is what happens when Emersonian self-reliance curdles into fascistic autonomy. The film is a warning, dressed in spectacle.

It also marks a critical junction in the evolution of film noir, a tradition that would not yet bear its name for another decade. While lacking the chiaroscuro lighting and urban fatalism of its successors, The Invisible Man is saturated with noir’s psychological motifs: paranoia, identity dissolution, alienation, and the specter of a male figure who believes himself above law and consequence. 

Griffin’s monologues, often delivered to an unwilling captive (Kemp), prefigure the genre’s later fascination with confessionals and doomed voiceovers. The snow-covered countryside becomes as psychologically oppressive as any city alley. The noir figure may wear a fedora and carry a gun; Griffin wears bandages and murders by force of thought alone. But the pathology is the same.

Though the film belongs to Universal’s horror cycle, it is neither a supernatural tale nor a morality play in the classical sense. It is, instead, a psychodrama disguised as spectacle—a study in ego gone metastatic. One recalls that Griffin has no motive beyond domination. He does not seek revenge, or wealth, or even fame.

The Invisible Man (1933) attacks a pram!

The Invisible Man (1933) attacks this old guy!

He desires, quite simply, to control. To murder. To rule. His motivations are terrifying in their purity. “We’ll begin with a reign of terror,” he declares with unsettling cheer. He is not Frankenstein’s monster, yearning for acceptance. He does not fear death, like Dracula. He is more abstract, and thus more terrifying: a principle masquerading as a man.

The supporting cast, drawn largely from the British theatrical tradition, provides ballast. William Harrigan as Kemp plays the reluctant accomplice with a mannered cowardice, the anti-hero whose resistance never becomes moral, only self-interested.

Una O’Connor, shrieking and gesticulating, irritates modern audiences and delighted Whale—she is the release valve, the caricature of fear. Gloria Stuart, though underwritten, carries her scenes with a weary dignity. But it is Rains who dominates, even unseen. His vocal performance is a study in modulation: cruel, seductive, hysterical, godlike. One believes his voice could convince men to jump from cliffs, or trains to derail themselves.

Obligatory smoking a cigarette scene in The Invisible Man (1933) 

The ending, of course, is inevitable: cornered in a barn, betrayed by footprints in the snow, Griffin is shot. Only then, in death, does his form return. The body reconstitutes itself slowly—first skull, then veins, then flesh. The metaphor is unsubtle: only in death do we become visible to others. Madness renders us illegible; mortality makes us readable. 

The final image, of Griffin at peace and Flora sobbing, suggests a harmony that the film itself never earns. But the unease lingers. We have seen what lies beneath the bandages.

Whale’s film, like its subject, refuses containment. It is a horror film, yes, but also a comedy, a tragedy, a political allegory, and a pre-noir psychodrama. It marries spectacle to subtext, laughs to cruelty, invisibility to omnipotence. That it continues to provoke awe nearly a century after its creation is not a matter of nostalgia but of genius—Whale’s and Rains’s, certainly, but also the film’s collective achievement.

So yah it is all true, and true is it all, because James Whale’s The Invisible Man (1933) sits in a liminal alcove of early sound cinema. It is an American pre‑Code science‑fiction horror text adapted, with stylish infidelity, from H. G. Wells’s 1897 novel. 

Manic chasing and frantic frolics in The Invisible Man (1933) 

Universal Pictures produced it. Gloria Stuart, Claude Rains, and William Harrigan lend corporeality to characters obsessed with its loss. The plot is stark. Chemist Dr Jack Griffin, rendered unseen by the mind‑corroding drug monocaine, swathes his empty flesh in bandages and dark glass. He hides in a rural inn, demands solitude, and awaits recognition of his sublime difference.

Events escalate with brutal economy. Griffin coerces colleague Dr Arthur Kemp. He promises a reign of terror. Harmless pranks escalate into homicide. A constable dies. A train derails, killing one hundred. Griffin schedules Kemp’s murder for ten the following night. Flora Cranley—fiancée, employer’s daughter—pleads in vain. Griffin spares her, annihilates Kemp, and flees. Betrayed by snow, he is shot, confesses hubris, and, dying, turns visible—body restored, soul spent.

Smashing up vehicles for no reason in The Invisible Man (1933)

This elegant fable gestated chaotically. Development opened in 1931 when Universal executives Richard L. Schayer and Robert Florey, buoyed by Dracula, proposed Wells’s tale. The studio instead chose Frankenstein. Yet scripts multiplied. Florey, E. A. Dupont, and Cyril Gardner queued to direct; John L. Balderston, Preston Sturges, Garrett Fort, even John Huston drafted scenarios. Boris Karloff loomed as the unseen star.

Whale, already eminent through Frankenstein and The Old Dark House, accepted, balked, and ultimately returned. Playwright R. C. Sherriff composed the decisive script in London. Wells approved Sherriff’s shift: monocaine induces madness as well as invisibility. Karloff withdrew over salary. Whale auditioned stage actor Rains, whose resonant voice outweighed his invisible face. Universal relented; Rains signed a two‑picture contract.

Principal photography ran June to August 1933. The final cost was $328,033. Two further months delivered John P. Fulton’s pioneering effects. Sets and costumes were sheathed in black velvet. Rains, matching the void, performed before darkness, then again clothed. 

Smashing up a train and mass murder for no reason in The Invisible Man (1933), just for the spectacle of seeing the point changing levers move 'by themselves'?

Matte work and frame retouching erased the actor, preserved garments, and manufactured absence. Over 63,000 frames were individually doctored. Footprints appeared via hidden boards; objects flew on wires; a wire‑frame head bore bandages while Rains’s own lay below the collar.

Casting elsewhere echoed Whale’s stage roots. Stuart returned to embody radiant anxiety. Harrigan replaced Chester Morris, who fled the role’s cowardice. Henry Travers contributed benevolent rationalism as Dr Cranley. Walter Brennan and John Carradine, scarcely credited, hover on the film’s margins. Arthur Edeson photographed with cold lucidity; Heinz Roemheld’s score, sparingly deployed, frames opening, climax, and credits, later recycled across the Universal catalogue.

Reception was swift and grateful. A Halloween press show on 26 October 1933 drew raves; The Hollywood Reporter hailed legitimate kinship to Dracula and Frankenstein. The New York Times named the film among 1933’s finest. 

Box office was lopsided—meagre in Los Angeles, record‑breaking at New York’s Roxy (twenty‑six thousand dollars in three days) and London’s Tivoli—yet cumulatively strong. Sequels proliferated in the 1940s, loosely connected. Critical re‑evaluation since has been lavish: Carlos Clarens, Jack Sullivan, and Kim Newman salute its Gothic‑scientific poise; filmmakers John Carpenter, Joe Dante, and Ray Harryhausen claim inspiration. In 2008 the Library of Congress admitted the film to the National Film Registry as “culturally, historically, or aesthetically significant.”

Snow undoes The Invisible Man (1933)

The film traces several theoretical vectors. It dramatizes modernity’s assault on empirical security: sight no longer guarantees knowledge. Pre‑Code permissiveness allows murder without censure and science without oversight. Voice replaces visage; language becomes flesh; subjectivity migrates to the auditory plane. Whale’s style, wry and baroque, infuses queer displacement: the invisible body literalises social erasure yet acquires anarchic power. The village mob, comic and provincial, mirrors spectators hungry for spectacle. The film satisfies the hunger while mocking it.

Claude Rains in The Invisible Man (1933)

Technically, the picture forecasts digital compositing yet maintains artisanal charm. Revealed artifice resists obsolescence. The narrative warns against unchecked ingenuity, anticipates debates on surveillance and fractured identity, and retreats into confession: “I meddled in things that man must leave alone.” 

Home‑media restorations repeat the penitential epiphany for successive generations; high‑definition clarity only heightens its metaphysical chill. Academic scrutiny inventories production minutiae. Viewers simply feel the cold breath of an absent man.

Because, because, The Invisible Man endures because technology, narrative, and philosophy converge with austere rigor. Whale wagered on disembodied performance, on intellect over gore, on brevity over bombast.

The studio conceived a minor follow‑up, lost nerve, rescheduled, and nearly abandoned the project. What emerged is an optical manifesto, simultaneously industrial artifact and timeless myth. Ninety‑plus minutes inscribe a warning: science may erase flesh but not consequence. The figure still prowls the cultural subconscious. Its whisper persists wherever light meets film, asserting that the greatest horror resides not in the unseen monster but in the human desire to look away from ourselves.

For it is not merely a story about a man who disappears. It is a film about the terrifying power of being unseen, and the equally terrifying compulsion to be recognized.

Indeed, The Invisible Man remains a monument to cinema’s most essential paradox: it makes visible that which does not, and cannot, exist. In doing so, it reveals far more than it conceals, and it conceals little, it talks of us, it is a 20th century catalogue of treacherous history compacted into a steep amusing and safe glimpse of maddened humanity.

The Invisible Man (1933)

Directed by James Whale

Genres - Horror, Science Fiction  |   Release Date - Oct 31, 1933  |   Run Time - 71 min | Wikipedia The Invisible Man 1933

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