Monsters may be horrible but you can’t fault their taste. To borrow a line from one of their number, they’re automatically attracted to beautiful. It’s like a magnet. We wonder if it’s possible their need is an unconscious manifestation of the id of male Hollywood screenwriters. Or were the writers deliberately making commentaries about male power, nuclear paranoia, and environmental degradation? Well, those are questions for smarter people than us. We take monsters at face value. Maybe that’s not what we mean—some don’t even have proper faces. What we mean is we judge them as individuals. Most monsters are direct, like Pongo, above, trying to impress Maris Wrixon in the 1945 movie White Pongo, while some, on the other claw, are more circumspect. But the language barrier usually sabotages their delicate efforts. “I know an independently owned café that serves a killer macchiato,” comes out as a series of glottal grunts. “I loved La La Land too and I think the naysayers are mainly joyless jazz purists,” comes out as a sustained sodden hiss. Even if these vocalizations could give a true indication of the inner depths of a monster’s personality, women generally wouldn’t give them a shot anyway, because despite what they say, looks really do matter. What’s a monster to do?
Clearly they have consent issues.