“Frankenstein” is a masterstroke, a thrilling rebuttal to the conventional wisdom about dreamlike projects. The writer-director creates something almost new, and certainly rich and strange, from a story we all thought we knew well.
Director: Guillermo del Toro
Writers: Guillermo del Toro, Mary Shelley
Stars: Oscar Isaac, Jacob Elordi, Christoph Waltz
But del Toro's setting is entirely inspired by the original. The film begins near the end of the novel, in the Arctic, where creator and creation have been trading roles of hunter and prey. But the filmmaker develops the story in ways that make it not only chilling and terrifying, in the best horror style, but heartbreakingly moving, expanding on the humanity that James Whale achieved in his 1930s classics, "Frankenstein" and "Bride of Frankenstein."
Horror aficionados will recognize the visual cues from Whale and also from Hammer's Frankenstein films, but del Toro doesn't cling too tightly to his admiration for cinematic tradition. The film doesn't wink; it believes in the story it tells and sets out to delve into all its philosophical and spiritual implications.
Physically abused by a human "God" who insists on absolute obedience, Jacob Elordi's menacing yet vulnerable creature is born into abject misery. But once Victor Frankenstein's creation achieves not only sentience but also literacy, his true torture begins. He questions who he is and what his place is. He condemns himself as a monster in a very specific sense: an eternal outsider, with no home anywhere, misunderstood and despised by all. Elordi is wonderful at conveying the monster's intelligence, sensitivity, and, yes, inherent sweetness—a shot of him holding and stroking a mouse is quietly devastating—but he also conveys power and rage beautifully.
Oscar Isaac's Victor has a manic quality, of course. He's not just consumed by his scientific quest, but obsessed with convincing his companions and family that it's right. Ordinary ethics needn't apply when it comes to eternal life. That's why Shelley subtitled his novel "Or, a Modern Prometheus." Victor believes he's creating a supreme good. Isaac sometimes goes too far into conventional "mad scientist" territory, but he never descends into overkill. You understand what drives him, though you never quite "identify" with it, as you should. Christoph Waltz gives one of his most genuinely empathetic performances as a mentor with ulterior motives, and Mia Goth lives up to her name as the fiancée of Victor's nephew, who shares some of her possible future father-in-law's morbid concerns.
Del Toro's ingenious design, executed by his excellent production and costume team, including frequent collaborators Tamara Deverell and Kate Hawley, constantly surprises with startling moments of visual synchronicity. Frankenstein is a silhouetted creation whose torso resembles a cluster of fused tectonic plates, while the dress worn by Goth's Elizabeth features small green islands pressing against each other. The frames are replete with del Toro's beloved reds and blacks (one of Victor's dream figures is a winged crimson angel—or is it a demon?), resulting in a visual nightmare that takes your breath away. Alexander Desplat's score is appropriately insistent.
Years ago, Del Toro told film journalist Edward Douglas: "I dream of being able to make the greatest Frankenstein ever, but if you do it, you've done it. Whether it's great or not, it's done. You can no longer dream about it. That's the tragedy of a filmmaker." Del Toro can rest assured: this is a triumph, not a tragedy. And you can always dream again.
This review was published at the world premiere at the Venice Film Festival. It opens in theaters on October 17, 2025, and on Netflix on November 7.
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