Frankenstein reimaginings seem to be all the rage these days, with films like Poor Things and Lisa Frankenstein entering the popular cultural consciousness. In Poor Things, it was a woman getting her own unborn baby’s brain implanted to resurrect. In Lisa Frankenstein, a teenage girl decides to resurrect the corpse of a Victorian young man and make him her ideal partner. Catherine Yu’s Helga feels like a mix of both, focusing on a young woman who is pieced together and later seeks to discover the world and create her own boyfriend.
Reanimation of a human being is certainly a timeless concept, and to her credit, Yu brings her own rich vision to Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. Still, it’s evident that there’s quite a lot of experimentation going on — not just in the story itself, but in the very way it’s structured and plotted. And as is the nature of experimentation, there’s bound to be some muddled parts where one just won’t be able to achieve strong findings. In this case, Yu seems to navigate the otherwise intriguing story with some tension. It’s a difficulty that might not have been observed by those without prior knowledge of Yu’s writing prowess, but it is especially apparent now given the seamless flow of Yu’s 2022 debut novel Direwood.
Helga isn’t Direwood, of course. As with many books by the same author, it’s probably unfair to compare the two. In fact, where Direwood asserts itself firmly within the gothic horror genre, Helga is much more of a dramedy. That shift in genre for Yu is also where the story falters. Direwood could easily be considered the best sample of Yu’s writing, with beautiful, hitting prose; enigmatic and vivid characters; and a distinct tone and concept.
In Helga, Yu shows the same strength in rendering her central character. The novel’s protagonist wakes up to her new reanimated life as “Marietta,” quickly coming to terms with the fact that she doesn’t like her name and would much rather be called “Helga.” She is subjected to the knowledge that she is a doctor’s science experiment, and this doctor does not care about her well-being. Helga’s voice gets across vividly, showing that Yu understands how to convey her character’s naïveté and mindset.
Helga, determined to explore the world (a curiosity much like Emma Stone’s Bella Baxter in Poor Things), runs off on her own to Downhill. She meets an attractive boy named Clyde, but finds out that despite his good looks, his personality leaves much to be desired. The “relationship” evolves rather quickly — seemingly intended to show Helga’s lack of understanding — and happens so fast that it may be difficult to grasp the emotional significance of it.
There’s a theme about class, with Uphill being the affluent area where the doctor and Helga come from. Downhill, comparatively, is the much more bohemian area of Amaris City and faces a threat of gentrification. These inequalities are referenced throughout the novel.
Although it’s admirable that Yu tries to incorporate such an important dynamic within Helga, it feels like there’s a bit of a tonal shift that occurs whenever these social issues come up. The dramedy could have been enhanced with such rendering of a necessary topic. However, the imbalance of the story with such exploration contributes to the feeling that these are two separate stories, ones that don’t really fit together in the grand scheme of things.
This sentiment is even more pronounced as the story progresses. The clash between those who live Uphill and those who live Downhill serves to establish the setting and theme. In terms of story, there isn’t a clear enough connection between that dynamic and Helga’s own journey. In other words, the setting doesn’t feel particularly crucial to the plot. Helga could have existed in a utopian society, and her journey to finding herself and creating her perfect man would have been very similar. There’s some jabs in the novel at the lack of respect many corporations often have for their employees, but they don’t come across clear enough to be truly defining for the story. These inclusions need more focus and intent. As they are, they can contribute to rather distracting moments for the reader.
What can be said is that Helga is an experiment. It’s an experiment in writing style and reimagining the Frankenstein narrative for Yu, whose Direwood already established her talent for writing and crafting emotional arcs. Helga presents solid results, but one must ask with every experiment, no matter how well thought-out: what about the methods and approaches could change?
