Given the thematic preoccupation Guillermo del Toro has long had with sympathetic, romanticized monsters, which arguably culminated in his multi-Oscar-winning The Shape of Water (2017), it was really only a matter of time before he tackled a new version of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. Originally published in 1818, Shelley's epistolatory novel became one of the cornerstones of both Gothic literature and the emerging genre of science fiction and has been long cemented in the public imaginary as the preeminent cautionary tale about the dangers of science unmoored from ethical consideration—the danger, that is, of humanity playing God. There has been literally hundreds of cinematic and televisual adaptations over the years, dating back to a long-thought-lost one-reeler produced by the Thomas Edison Company in 1910. Hence, the understandable reaction: "Again?"

And yet, as he has done with previous stories we thought we knew, del Toro reimagines Frankenstein in a way that is marvelous and compelling and unique and, for the most part, quite faithful to Shelley's novel. Although del Toro has had a hand in writing all of the films he has directed, Frankenstein is the first in nearly 20 years—since Pan's Labyrinth (El laberinto del fauno, 2006)—that he has written alone, making it a particularly acute manifestation of his narrative and thematic preoccupations (his only other solo screenplay is his 1992 writing/directing debut, Cronos).

Del Toro adapting Frankenstein has its own undeniable logic (he has long described it as "dream project"), as there have been bits and pieces of the Frankenstein story scattered throughout his previous films, most distinctly in his stop-motion-animated Pinocchio (2022), which treats Geppetto's creation of and reaction to the wooden puppet in a distinctly Frankenstein-ian manner. Del Toro's visual approach to Frankenstein is certainly his own, although it is not as stark a departure as Pinocchio, which looked nothing like any previous version. Yet, working with production designer Tamara Deverell, with whom he previously collaborated on Nightmare Alley (2021) and his television series Cabinet of Curiosities (2022), and cinematographer Dan Laustsen, with whom he has collaborated five times dating back to Mimic (1997), del Toro makes the physical contours of the story feel both deeply familiar and slightly alien. We have seen so much of this before—the towering Gothic castle, the laboratory of strange devices and glass jars, the hallowed halls of European academia that reject Frankenstein's wild theories—that there is a real threat of banality, but del Toro reinvigorates it with a brash visual sensibility that makes the old feel new (at least some of the visuals were inspired by Bernie Wrightson's 1983 graphic novel adaptation). It is bloody and tactile and bristling with detail, the kind that brings it to life much like Frankenstein's tortured Creature.

As has been the case since Kenneth Branagh's melodramatic 1994 version, del Toro maintains Shelley's narrative structure, beginning the film not with Frankenstein, but rather with an Arctic explorer named Captain Anderson (Lars Mikkelsen), whose ship has become trapped in the ice as he pursues his goal of reaching the North Pole. For Shelley, Anderson was a double for Frankenstein, another man whose mad pursuit of his own scientific goals created violence and death around him. He also stands as a convenient vessel for Frankenstein's story, as he finds the beleaguered scientist (brilliantly played by Oscar Isaac), exhausted and close to death, on the ice in pursuit of the Creature he created.

The film then flashes back to Victor Frankenstein's story, explaining through direct address his childhood at the hands of a wealthy, but cruel father (Charles Dance), a renowned surgeon who demanded perfection from his son; the death of his beloved mother giving birth to his younger brother, who became his father's favorite; and his descent into a feverish pursuit of scientific attainment that culminated in his creation of a Creature (Jacob Elordi) stitched together from pieces of human corpses and forced back into life through electricity. As played by Oscar Isaac, Frankenstein is neither a madman nor a fool, but rather a soul driven to extremes by his childhood experiences. The horrors of his accomplishment are inscribed in both the tormented body of his Creature, which has a pale, lithe beauty that contrasts with the typical clunkiness of the character's previous cinematic renditions and marks him as a particularly acute figure of capital-R Romantic tragedy, and in the reactions of his younger brother, William (Felix Kammerer), and his wife, Elizabeth (Mia Goth), whose uncle, a wealthy arms merchant named Harlander (Christoph Waltz), helped to fuel Victor's desire to create life.

As with Shelley's novel, half of del Toro's Frankenstein tells Victor's story, while the other half tells the Creature's story, which are mirrors of tragedy—the first born of perverse ambition and the second born of cruelty and rejection. After Victor, failing to make the Creature what he wants him to be, tries to destroy him by burning down his castle, the Creature escapes into the woods, where he takes up secret residence within the walls of a cottage owned by two hunters who previously tried to kill him. When they leave for an extended hunt, he befriends their blind grandfather (David Bradley), which offers him a taste of human acceptance that is soon destroyed when the hunters return. The immensity of this rejection sets him on a path of vengeance that culminates in his conflict with Victor in the Arctic, although unlike Shelley's novel, which sees that conflict through to an ending of mutually assured destruction, del Toro makes room for forgiveness and renewal. It is a bold ending to a classic horror tale, grafting onto Shelley's tragedy a bright light of redemption. Purists will balk, but it is how del Toro makes it his own.

Copyright © 2025 James Kendrick

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