When a new tale is born from the singular and slightly twisted mind of Guillermo del Toro, his name becomes embedded in the branding of the film. In the case of his take on Pinocchio a few years ago, his name was even in the official title, as if to caution you that it’s distinct from the version you may know and love. His retelling of Frankenstein emerges from over 50 years of reverence and affection for the original work — it’s a project he’s wanted to do since he was 7 years old when he was first entranced by Boris Karloff’s portrayal of the monster in the 1931 classic. It’s this long-term relationship with the story that sets del Toro’s film apart from the countless adaptations that have been made since Mary Shelley first conjured up the frightful idea of Frankenstein’s monster — as part of a boredom-busting game with Lord Byron and Percy Shelley during a rainy summer — over 200 years ago.
To say his first encounter with Frankenstein was a formative experience would be an irresponsible understatement. It shaped who he is and now runs through his veins. The book is a seminal Gothic novel, a genre of literature and art that is imprinted on del Toro’s core aesthetic. His most Gothic tale is Crimson Peak, which he’s described as a “rehearsal” for Frankenstein, although I would contend that it does also stand alone as an effectively spooky and visually lush homage to the Gothic romance.
Examining Shelley’s novel, we can spot the origins of some of the recurring themes in del Toro’s work. The creature is initially an innocent and peaceful being, and is inclined towards virtuous values that he learns from reading. This purity is corrupted by the cruelty of a world that can only view him as a monster. This relates to an underlying frustration with coming into a world you didn’t ask to be born into, which del Toro points out is a reminder that the novel is written by a teenage girl (and a woman in the 1800s). We can see this in Ofelia in Pan’s Labyrinth, who is repeatedly faced with trials and tragedies amongst the brutality of the Spanish Civil War as her innocence is stripped away. Pinocchio and The Devil’s Backbone similarly centre on young protagonists who must confront the harsh realities of the world. The fate of Shelley’s creature is to be rejected and cast from society. We can see from the heroes in the Hellboy films or the band of characters that work together to save the Amphibian Man in The Shape of Water that del Toro is drawn to societal outcasts.
Undoubtedly the biggest impact Frankenstein has had on del Toro is how it defined his love of monsters. You could say that Shelley’s creature was the first misunderstood monster. For the director, monsters have always been a way to help make sense of the world; he identifies with them:
“Monsters also show us that it’s possible to breathe and exist in a realm of imperfection… There is beauty and humility in imperfection.”
His monsters are always complicated creations, normally neither wholly good nor evil, often misunderstood. With Frankenstein, he once again argues his case, as the film humanises the creature while antagonising Victor, his creator, and drops a very unsubtle and unnecessary line about who the real monster is — unless you weren’t paying attention, or haven’t seen a del Toro movie before as this is a point he repeatedly returns to.
Since Guillermo del Toro’s Frankenstein has been festering, in some form or another, for many years, the idea of it seems larger than the film itself. Now it’s finally here, it already feels familiar. Like Victor Frankenstein stitching body parts together to make his creation, we can go back through the director’s filmography, assembling elements from each of his movies to make Frankenstein. At the same time, it’s a culmination of his work, and was always going to be made, eventually. Perhaps the film’s biggest strength is its existence. If we can criticise films whose existence is unjustified (the almost shot-for-shot live action remake of How to Train Your Dragon, for example), then we must be able to praise films when their existence is completely justified, or even necessary.
As a Frankenstein adaptation, it’s faithful to the source material in setting and aesthetic, and captures the thematic and emotional essence of the book. Everything is beautifully realised; a Guillermo del Toro film is always a showcase of craftsmanship, and the period setting means that the production can go all out. From the exquisite costumes to the impressive scale of the sets, like Victor’s lab or a fully constructed ship stuck in ice, it’s all elaborately designed and looks stunning. Several sequences double as a confession that the director is simply having fun bringing to life the world he has dreamt about for so long.
Oscar Isaac plays Victor Frankenstein, the titular scientist who dares to play God by giving life to dead matter. Isaac plays him eccentric and obsessive, with a ruthless edge that only becomes more pronounced as the film progresses. Intrigued by Victor’s curious work is Christoph Waltz’s Harlander, who becomes his benefactor, handing him unlimited resources to pursue his scientific quest. Harlander also introduces Victor to his niece, Elizabeth (Mia Goth), who is engaged to Victor’s brother, and not entirely convinced by the virtue of Victor’s pursuit. Among these minor character changes, del Toro makes a key deviation from the book, electing to have Victor spend time with the creature after the all-important reanimation scene, which effectively builds a father-son dynamic. In the novel, he is too horrified by his creation and flees immediately. This shifts the film into a prodigal father story — a similar angle he took with his version of Pinocchio. An added bonus is that it offers an opportunity for a bond to be established between the creature and Elizabeth. She seems to be the only one who can look through the monstrous exterior and see his inner soul. It’s an affecting idea that I only wish were developed and utilised more (even if we’ve seen it before in The Shape of Water).
The heart of the film is Jacob Elordi’s performance as the creature. Buried under prosthetics, he delivers a commendably expressive performance, largely through physicality while also conveying a lot with his eyes. From his other roles, I’ve noticed he has empathetic eyes, which are suited here. Del Toro agrees, as he cast Elordi after watching him in Priscilla and seeing purity and vulnerability, but also flashes of rage, in his eyes. The design of the creature moves away from the stereotypical image and back towards Shelley’s original, but with a del Toro spin that brings it in line with some of his previous creations, such as the Amphibian Man in The Shape of Water or the Pale Man in Pan’s Labyrinth.
At points, del Toro seems to prioritise delivering emotional and dramatic moments over diving deep into the philosophical issues. It feels like he’s holding back because there’s no doubt he understands the book as well as anyone. Perhaps there isn’t space in this already 2.5 hour beast, but he could easily venture further in his exploration. Fortunately, the timeless story carries enough power to resonate and strike deep, with the myriad ways it can be applied, from the artistic process to AI. The subject of a scientist on a reckless pursuit of knowledge for the sake of science and mankind creating something that quickly spirals out of his control feels particularly relevant at this moment in time, considering the recent success of Oppenheimer. Both movies curiously have explicit links to Prometheus — he is mentioned in the films and in the titles of the books upon which they’re based (Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus and American Prometheus).
Both book and film have strong-willed authors with much they want to say. Del Toro is able to balance their voices by constructively building upon Shelley’s message. He clearly empathises with her expression of anguish and longing, but projects his own optimism. This movie gives him the perfect opportunity to embrace and celebrate imperfection. He’s a director who always searches for beauty and hope in unexpected places, even when in some of his films, cruelty triumphs over innocence and hope can seem fleeting. Ultimately, the most notable divergence from the book is simply that it’s hopeful and champions a message of life. Del Toro’s beloved creation is finally out in the world, and it bears its maker’s signature — and his heart.
CineLiterate 