The novel is awash in the grand and tempestuous emotions you’d expect to find in Gothic works, that Romantic impulse that has heroes swooning, overcome with fevers repeatedly and exclaiming, “How mutable are our feelings, and how strange is that clinging love we have of life even in the excess of misery!” It is not exactly the prose, the pace, the vibe we now associate with horror. Yet the horrors of “Frankenstein” are multiple. There is the more obvious physical horror of the creature — “a mummy again endued with animation could not be so hideous as that wretch” — and the violent deaths that eventually follow once it confronts its maker. Harder to grasp and to film are the horrors of parental neglect and abuse that constitute the novel’s beating heart.