Frankenstein: Divine as Comedy

(Don't hurt me, grammar police, for the following is only a modified freewrite(type). That is, I'm doing some editing.)

Frankenstein, sure, is a novel with historical content and flowery prose that leaves Mary Shelley readers simply dying for more. Yes, Frankenstein, I'm talking about that book about that guy who is now known as a giant green monster, similar to the Hulk, but generally thought of as less butch and more terrifying. Frankenstein may be ugly, he may be dumb, but his creature is quite the intellectual.
Funny, yes. Serious, I don't think so. Frankenstein is a comedy, I say. Comedy, in a "haha, that's HI-larious," kind of way, not a comedy like Dante's Inferno where everyone goes to hell or purgatory, if you're lucky. Sure, everyone dies at the end, but that doesn't mean it's not done in a highly comedic way. No one questions why Kenny is always killed, why question the deaths in Frankenstein? To me, the situation is similar to that of P.G. Wodehouse's Wooster & Jeeves characters. Frankenstein's a genius for being able to create life, but he arguably lacks some street smarts. His "daemon" is the Jeeves to his Wooster. When reading a Jeeves novel, you think, Could Wooster be more vacuous? Likewise, when reading Frankenstein, I wonder, Could Frankenstein be more daft? Frankenstein makes a "daemon" eight feet tall who is watery in the eyes, has raven hair, and looks nearly jaundiced. This description in itself could be frightful, but there are ways in which Shelley counteracts the nightmarish picture. First, there is the problem with not fully describing the animation scenes when Frankenstein is in his lab with the random limbs and whatnot from things human and nonhuman alike. Really, the early 1800s could have dealt with a little more gore. Why not put in some more detail? Macbeth gave us what was in the Three Witches' stew. Was an eye of newt in Frankenstein's recipe? I suppose we'll never know. And we'll never know because that information deems itself unworthy in a comedy.

Then there is the matter of the number of deaths due to the hand of the creature of Frankenstein. Some might have already been desensitized to the blow of lost lives after William and Justine. After all, they are just too pretty anyway. Frankenstein has a whole handful of beautiful people who are still alive to surround himself with. Additionally, all the feelings Frankenstein, his daemon and his friend Walton relay to the audience becomes much too maudlin, so maudlin that the emotion is replaced with levity. Instead of hilarity becoming so great that it hurts, Frankenstein exhibits hurting so great that it becomes something to be taken lightly.