Frankenstein MONSTROUSLY GOOD!
Guillermo del Toro's Frankenstein: A Monstrous Masterpiece That Resurrects the Soul of Horror
In the pantheon of cinematic reimaginings, Guillermo del Toro's *Frankenstein* stands as a towering colossus, a film that doesn't just adapt Mary Shelley's 1818 novel but exhumes its beating heart and stitches it anew with threads of profound humanity, gothic splendor, and unflinching terror. Premiering to rapturous acclaim at this year's festivals, del Toro's vision—his long-gestating passion project finally brought to life—proves to be not merely a horror film, but a symphony of sorrow and wonder. It's the best movie of 2025, bar none, and arguably the finest achievement in genre filmmaking since del Toro's own *The Shape of Water* reshaped our dreams eight years ago. This is cinema that lingers like a fever dream, haunting and healing in equal measure.
Del Toro, ever the alchemist of the macabre, honors Shelley's foundational text while boldly reanimating it for our fractured era. Gone is the novel's epistolary structure and some of its more aloof philosophical detours; in their place, del Toro injects a visceral intimacy, centering the narrative on the electric bond—and brutal rupture—between creator and creation. Victor Frankenstein's hubris remains the spark, but del Toro amplifies the Creature's rage into a poignant cry against isolation, weaving in contemporary echoes of exile and identity that feel ripped from today's headlines without ever preaching. These changes aren't dilutions; they're evolutions, transforming Shelley's cautionary tale into a mirror for our monster-making world, where science and solitude collide with devastating grace.
From the first frame, the production quality announces itself as a triumph of tactile artistry. Del Toro's direction is a masterclass in controlled chaos—sweeping crane shots through fog-shrouded laboratories give way to claustrophobic close-ups of trembling hands and flickering candlelight, every movement deliberate, every shadow pregnant with intent. The writing, co-penned by del Toro with his frequent collaborator Scott Ridley, crackles with poetic ferocity: dialogue that bites like Shelley's prose, laced with metaphors of birth and betrayal that elevate the script beyond genre tropes. "We are all assembled from the scraps of our making," Victor intones early on, a line that reverberates through the film's emotional core, underscoring del Toro's genius for forging poetry from pain.
But it's the special effects that truly electrify, a deliberate rebuke to our CGI-saturated age. Del Toro champions practical wizardry here, with the Creature's resurrection sequence—a grotesque ballet of sutures, lightning, and raw flesh—crafted through prosthetics, animatronics, and old-school stop-motion that pulses with lifelike menace. No green-screen shortcuts; every scar gleams with the sweat of artisans, every limb twitches with mechanical ingenuity. The result is effects work that feels alive, intimate, and utterly immersive, harking back to the glory days of Rick Baker and Tom Savini while pushing boundaries into something profoundly empathetic. In an era of digital detachment, this is effects design with soul—monstrous, yes, but achingly human.
Visually, the aesthetic is del Toro at his most intoxicating: a fevered fusion of Romantic sublime and Victorian decay, drenched in palettes of bruised blues, arterial reds, and the sickly glow of bioluminescent elixirs. The costumes, under the meticulous eye of designer Lindy Hemming, are wearable poetry—Victor's disheveled frock coats, frayed at the cuffs like unraveling sanity; the Creature's patchwork hides, layered with scavenged furs and metallic implants that whisper of forbidden alchemy. Set design elevates it all to operatic heights: Alexandre Hammid's production design conjures a Geneva of perpetual twilight, where Victor's lair is a labyrinth of brass gears, bubbling retorts, and towering bookcases groaning under forbidden tomes. Rain-lashed cobblestones and mist-veiled Alps frame the exile sequences, turning nature itself into a co-conspirator in the tragedy. It's a world you can smell—the ozone of storms, the copper tang of blood—del Toro's direction ensuring every element conspires to ensnare the senses.
Threading through this tapestry are the poetic connections del Toro weaves, subtle yet seismic. He draws lyrical parallels between Frankenstein's hubris and the Creature's quest for kinship, echoing Shelley's themes of parental abandonment with motifs of fractured mirrors and inverted reflections—Victor glimpsing his own monstrosity in his creation's eyes. A recurring lullaby, hummed by a spectral chorus, binds their fates, transforming the story into a requiem for the unloved, where science becomes a surrogate for the divine spark we all crave. These aren't flourishes; they're the film's beating pulse, turning horror into haunting elegy.
And oh, the cast—a constellation of talent orbiting two supernova performances that anchor the film's emotional maelstrom. Jacob Elordi as the Creature is a revelation, a seismic debut in the role that shatters every preconception. Towering yet tender, Elordi's physicality—those deliberate, lumbering steps evolving into a dancer's grace—conveys the agony of awakening with raw, unspoken eloquence. Beneath layers of makeup that accentuate his aquiline features into something both pitiable and primal, he imbues the monster with a feral curiosity and bottomless grief, his eyes (those piercing, storm-gray orbs) conveying volumes that lesser actors couldn't voice. When the Creature weeps—not with guttural roars, but silent, shuddering sobs—it's Elordi's quiet fury that breaks you, a performance of such layered vulnerability it demands awards-season worship. He's not just the heart of the film; he's its howling conscience.
Opposite him, Oscar Isaac as Victor Frankenstein delivers a tour de force of tormented brilliance. Isaac, with his chameleon intensity, captures the doctor's descent from feverish idealist to shattered recluse with a precision that borders on the surgical—his voice cracking like thunder over whispered incantations, his frame coiling tighter with each moral compromise. In their charged confrontations, Isaac and Elordi generate a father-son alchemy that's equal parts tender and terrifying, their chemistry crackling like the storm that births the beast. The supporting ensemble shines too—Lia Williams as a steely Elizabeth, radiating quiet ferocity; Felix Kammerer as the loyal Clerval, a beacon of unscarred warmth—but it's Isaac's unraveling genius that makes Victor's folly feel like our own.
*Frankenstein* isn't just a film; it's a resurrection, a defiant act of creation that reminds us why we tell these stories. Del Toro has given Shelley's immortal work the adaptation it deserved—one that honors its bones while breathing fresh fire into its veins. In a year of bold swings and safe bets, this is the one that lands like lightning: profound, exhilarating, unforgettable. See it in theaters, let it scar you sweetly, and emerge changed. Five stars aren't enough; this is the stuff of legends.
Frankenstein Streaming Now on Netflix!
