Frankenstein – Film Review

If there was anybody who could make an absolutely electric and thrilling Frankenstein reimagining, it was Guillermo Del Toro, and boy did he ever deliver. His long-awaited film has finally arrived, and it is everything one might expect from a filmmaker whose visual and emotional language has long been steeped in the macabre, the melancholic, and the magnificent. Both grand and deeply human, del Toro’s Frankenstein is a breathtaking gothic epic that marries spectacle with sorrow, bringing Mary Shelley’s timeless tale of creation and consequence vividly to life with visual artistry, emotional resonance, and an ensemble of extraordinary performances.

With Oscar Isaac as the obsessive Baron Victor Frankenstein and Jacob Elordi as his tragic creation, del Toro crafts an operatic vision of the classic novel that feels both faithful and fearlessly reimagined. It is a film of sweeping scope and aching intimacy — a story of ambition, grief, and the agony of existence that lingers long after the credits fade.

From its opening moments amid the frozen wasteland of the Arctic, Frankenstein declares itself a work of grandeur and melancholy. Cinematographer Dan Laustsen, a longtime del Toro collaborator, bathes the film in chiaroscuro splendor — icy blues and pallid whites give way to candlelit golds and shadowy reds, as the story oscillates between scientific ambition and emotional ruin. The film’s design evokes the great gothic traditions: crumbling towers, flickering laboratories, and storm-lashed graveyards. Yet within its lavishness lies an unrelenting sadness.

Del Toro’s direction is characteristically meticulous — every frame feels hand-crafted, like an illuminated manuscript of madness and mourning. But what elevates this Frankenstein above previous iterations is its empathy. While the spectacle of reanimation remains, del Toro’s fascination lies not in the act of creation but in the pain that follows. His version of Victor Frankenstein is no mere mad scientist; he is a wounded visionary, shaped by loss and arrogance, blinded by the illusion of godhood. His Creature, by contrast, is a being of innocence and anguish, cursed to feel too much and belong nowhere.

The film’s pacing — deliberate and immersive — reflects the novel’s introspection rather than the pulpy pace of modern horror. Del Toro invites the audience to feel the weight of Victor’s obsession and the Creature’s yearning, allowing tragedy to unfold as a slow, devastating bloom.

Oscar Isaac delivers one of his most powerful performances to date as Victor Frankenstein. His portrayal is not of a deranged genius but a man consumed by grief and ego, whose brilliance is both gift and curse. Isaac captures Victor’s emotional disintegration with haunting precision — his eyes burn with divine purpose one moment, then flicker with despair the next. Beneath the bravado lies a son mourning his mother, a brother tormented by guilt, and a man undone by the hubris of trying to outwit death.

Opposite him, Jacob Elordi gives a revelatory performance as the Creature. His physicality — a mix of grace, menace, and vulnerability — conveys the paradox of his existence. Del Toro frames the Creature not as a monster but as a newborn soul navigating cruelty and beauty for the first time. Elordi’s portrayal is heartbreaking: every gesture, every flicker of recognition, every attempt to speak becomes an act of defiance against the pain of being unwanted. His eyes, often brimming with wonder or sorrow, anchor the film’s emotional weight.

The dynamic between Isaac and Elordi is electric — a tragic reflection of parent and child, god and man, love and loathing. Their encounters pulse with emotional violence, yet their connection remains deeply human, revealing the shared loneliness of creator and creation.

Mia Goth, as Elizabeth Harlander, gives the film its moral and emotional counterpoint. Far from a passive love interest, she is the conscience of the story — compassionate, intelligent, and unafraid to challenge Victor’s cruelty. Goth’s ethereal presence carries both tenderness and quiet strength, grounding the narrative’s grand tragedy in moments of fragile intimacy.

Guillermo del Toro has spent much of his career dancing with monsters — from Pan’s Labyrinth to Crimson Peak to The Shape of Water — but Frankenstein may be his most personal work yet. His understanding of the monstrous as something both horrifying and sacred shines through every detail. The production design, by Tamara Deverell, is a marvel: a collision of decaying aristocracy and industrial innovation, where gears, glass, and bone intertwine.

Composer Alexandre Desplat’s score swells with tragic grandeur, combining orchestral romanticism with haunting choral passages that mirror the dual souls of Victor and his Creature. It’s a symphony of sorrow that elevates every emotional beat.

Equally impressive is the film’s use of practical effects and prosthetics. Del Toro eschews overreliance on CGI, grounding his horrors in tactile realism. The Creature’s appearance — a patchwork of scars and sinew — evokes disgust and pity in equal measure. Each movement feels deliberate, each scar a story of pain and rebirth.

Editing by Evan Schiff maintains a deliberate rhythm, balancing the film’s epic sweep with its human core. Though the runtime stretches past two and a half hours, it rarely feels indulgent. Every moment serves the operatic flow of a tale about ambition and aftermath, love and loss.

Del Toro’s Frankenstein thrives on its thematic depth. The film’s central question — what does it mean to be human? — reverberates through every scene. Victor seeks to master life and death, yet his refusal to take responsibility for his creation mirrors humanity’s tendency to abandon what it cannot control. The Creature, in turn, becomes a vessel for existential pain — an eternal outcast, doomed to seek connection in a world that rejects him.

In del Toro’s interpretation, creation itself is not evil; it is neglect that breeds monstrosity. This idea gives the film its tragic resonance. Both Victor and his Creature are victims of their own yearning — one for perfection, the other for love. Their stories are bound by loneliness, and del Toro finds poetry in their mutual ruin.

The film also grapples with the intersection of science and faith, framing Victor’s experiment as an act of both devotion and defiance. The use of lightning — a metaphor for divine energy — becomes the visual heartbeat of the story, illuminating the line between creation and destruction.

Few filmmakers could balance horror, pathos, and grandeur the way del Toro does here. His Frankenstein is neither pure horror nor pure drama — it is a symphonic tragedy about the agony of creation, rendered with painterly precision and emotional depth. It is as much about death and rebirth as it is about love and guilt.

The final moments — wordless, luminous, and devastating — encapsulate everything del Toro stands for as a storyteller. It’s an ending that feels inevitable yet transcendent, a culmination of visual poetry and human ache.

Frankenstein is not just another adaptation of Mary Shelley’s novel; it’s a resurrection of its soul. With its haunting performances, sumptuous design, and emotional intelligence, the film cements Guillermo del Toro as one of cinema’s great mythmakers — a creator who understands that monsters, in the end, are mirrors of ourselves. It’s a visually stunning, emotionally shattering epic that redefines the legend for a new generation.