“Can you contain your fire, Prometheus, or will you burn your hands?” The line is spoken by Christoph Waltz’s polymath gentlemen of curiosities, a 19th century military-industrial baron who got rich off the Crimean War, and whose hobbies get in the way of his other hobbies. He is bankrolling Victor Frankenstein’s grand vision of ‘playing god,’ restoring life to dead tissue. The line is also the filmmaking mission statement for Guillermo del Toro’s sprawling and opulent rendition of the speculative fiction cum horror classic.
Mary Shelley’s iconic novel, along with H.P. Lovecraft’s At the Mountains of Madness, are two mega-projects that the director has been slaving away at for years. If you excuse the mixed literary and historical metaphors, Mountains may be destined to be his Waterloo, but Frankenstein has always been his White Whale: Moby Dick seeks thee not. It is thou, thou, that madly seekest him! And I only am escaped alone to tell thee. Or something like that.
Opening with an exploration ship trapped in the ice near the north pole, del Toro has shifted the original timeframe of the novel forward at least half a century to the 1850s. He has divided the narrative into three parts: The prologue from the point of view of the captain (Lars Mikkelsen) of the stuck polar vessel, Victor’s story to the captain upon his rescue from the ice, and The Monster’s story to the captain upon his conquering of the ship and its crew.
Far from a Rashomon-type structure, the narrative is actually quite linear in nature. Beginning with Victor’s childhood and the death of his mother in childbirth, towards his taciturn and abusive father (Charles Dance) favouring his happy-go-lucky younger brother William, with the family fortune, through Victor's brushes and conflicts with academia, where he is shunned, and capitalism, where he is indulged.
The ‘birth’ of The Monster (Jacob Elordi) via lightning from assembled body parts of soldiers who perished in the Crimean War in a remote castle which was, seemingly, purpose-built for water and corpse management, is lovingly drawn out, and is a wondrous thing to behold. It then follows the upbringing and escape of the Monster, on his journey to self-understanding and finding a life (and maybe a wife) for itself.
No adaptation of Mary Shelley’s novel has ever been fully faithful in terms of plotting or character. Of the two most famous previous attempts—the iconic 1931 Universal Studios film directed by James Whale, and the messy and mostly forgotten 1994 Kenneth Branagh version—Frankenstein 2025 lies somewhere in the middle in terms of fidelity to the source.
No adaptation of Mary Shelley’s novel has ever been fully faithful in terms of plotting or character. Of the two most famous previous attempts—the iconic 1931 Universal Studios film directed by James Whale, and the messy and mostly forgotten 1994 Kenneth Branagh version—Frankenstein 2025 lies somewhere in the middle in terms of fidelity to the source.
Del Toro subtracts characters and events, and adds other shadings as he sees fit. And the performance of Jacob Elordi (Saltburn, Euphoria) is as equally different an interpretation of The Monster from Boris Karloff or Robert DeNiro’s take on the character. Or for that matter, of Peter Boyle in Mel Brooks’ sublime comedy that holds its own with the best of adaptations.
Given the reliance on character (both literally and figuratively) and thoughtfulness on what a life means, I could have done without the several over-long action sequences. They add little but distraction from the more romantic historical philosophy of the period piece - and feel like a Netflix concession towards a more general audience who might get bored otherwise.
The action sequences bloat the film, and slightly diminishes the otherwise exquisite humanism, both good and evil, at play. The horror and the horrific elements are far better, more restrained, and land on the bullseye to peak effect, if but only a few specific instances exist in the film, beyond the overall idea being explored.
The film is also a sprawling $120 million dollar ode to practical set design, a litany of curious 19th century asides, from wet-plate photography to quicksilver as a treatment for syphilis. (“One day with Venus, and a lifetime with Mercury!”) and the Crimean War (famously known as World War Zero). Given the richness of period detail, it might be too much to take it in completely in one viewing. Unquestionably, it is something that deserves the biggest movie screen possible, before its inevitable zombified life on streaming services.
The film is also a sprawling $120 million dollar ode to practical set design, a litany of curious 19th century asides, from wet-plate photography to quicksilver as a treatment for syphilis. (“One day with Venus, and a lifetime with Mercury!”) and the Crimean War (famously known as World War Zero). Given the richness of period detail, it might be too much to take it in completely in one viewing. Unquestionably, it is something that deserves the biggest movie screen possible, before its inevitable zombified life on streaming services.
The sets are such big and beautiful soundstages, however, that they suffer a void of the bustle of outside life. Frustratingly, the world building of Frankenstein ends at the edge of the frame, with little life extending beyond. This is an oddly sparse place, which feels far more akin to theatre, than a wider complex society, or even a cinema facsimile of such.
Paradoxically, some great character actors still get lost in too-small parts. Blink and you will miss typically compelling character actors in minuscule appearances, including Burn Gorman, Nikolaj Lie Kaas, Peter Millard, and Ralph Ineson, who, after a sizeable part in Robbert Eggars' Nosferatu, is gunning for the classic monster hat-trick if he makes it into a Wolfman or Mummy movie.
Frankenstein straddles the middle of a fine popcorn extravaganza, and a thoughtful gothic art film. Everyone involved on the performance side is superb. Oscar Isaac's steampunk emo dreamboat, with a lock of hair that flops in front of one eye when he is at both his highest and lowest points along his arc from obsession, to anger, to vengeance, to death wish, to forgiveness.
Mia Goth’s ‘hot for creature’ lady of interest is as much a clothing rack as she is the object of a four-way love quadrangle. Yet, becaues Goth can do this kind of quality work in her sleep, she remains compulsively watchable every time the story deigns she show up.
Christoph Waltz’s Victorian era Peter Weyland - you know, from the other ‘modern Prometheus’ - departs the film far too early, and his exeunt is both spectacular and an unfortunate loss for the remainder of the movie. But he is a joy when he is hanging around the library and the laboratory, or helping the hunt for body parts.
Without question del Toro’s heart (regardless of its weight) belongs to The Monster. Frankenstein eventually offers Jacob Elordi centre stage for a highly empathic and sympathetic performance. His journey is in sharp contrast from Victor's. He goes from childlike wonder to teen-age rebellion and rage, to mature understanding. His story almost overshadows the first hour of the film, Victor’s telling, until things come full circle in the frozen arctic. Dare I say that the film’s conclusion is more satisfying than the novel, if less horrific.
Del Toro has a long history of fetishising creature design in his films, from the scarab-clockworks inducing vampire and decay of Cronos, the boy-ghost in The Devil’s Backbone, and the high-fantasy menagerie in Pan’s Labyrinth and the Hellboy movies, culminating either with the sequence of dancing and underwater intimacy in The Shape of Water or the tragic Geek origin story of Nightmare Alley. But it has always been more than great creature design. It is the writer-director's desire, or pathological artistic compulsion, to humanize the monster and monsterize the humans. This has never been more true than in Frankenstein, which reserves nearly all its empathy and its love for the creature.
Christoph Waltz’s Victorian era Peter Weyland - you know, from the other ‘modern Prometheus’ - departs the film far too early, and his exeunt is both spectacular and an unfortunate loss for the remainder of the movie. But he is a joy when he is hanging around the library and the laboratory, or helping the hunt for body parts.
Without question del Toro’s heart (regardless of its weight) belongs to The Monster. Frankenstein eventually offers Jacob Elordi centre stage for a highly empathic and sympathetic performance. His journey is in sharp contrast from Victor's. He goes from childlike wonder to teen-age rebellion and rage, to mature understanding. His story almost overshadows the first hour of the film, Victor’s telling, until things come full circle in the frozen arctic. Dare I say that the film’s conclusion is more satisfying than the novel, if less horrific.
Del Toro has a long history of fetishising creature design in his films, from the scarab-clockworks inducing vampire and decay of Cronos, the boy-ghost in The Devil’s Backbone, and the high-fantasy menagerie in Pan’s Labyrinth and the Hellboy movies, culminating either with the sequence of dancing and underwater intimacy in The Shape of Water or the tragic Geek origin story of Nightmare Alley. But it has always been more than great creature design. It is the writer-director's desire, or pathological artistic compulsion, to humanize the monster and monsterize the humans. This has never been more true than in Frankenstein, which reserves nearly all its empathy and its love for the creature.
The film sizzles like a lightning strike (not sorry for that one) when the effects are small and practical, such as a pair of early reanimation attempts before the big splashy ("It's Alive!") centrepiece. The ozone left behind is equally pungent, as this is ultimately a story about consquences.
Things suffer when it leans into superhero fights, where nothing-can-stop-him-action beats diminish key scenes on (at least two) too many occasions. A recurring vision of the maiden of death, an avatar of Victor’s madness, serves little purpose that is not already present in other ways. It is only used a couple times, but each time it is distracting and unnecessary, particularly when the more practical motif of Victor and The Monster either ‘facing the darkness’ or ‘facing the light’ serves as a more fitting metaphor for the two men and their purpose. I found the same shoehorned unnecessary CGI excess undercut Crimson Peak of its gothic-mystery atmosphere. Del Toro is far better working with people and make-up and physical sets than virtual rendering farms, which is better left to the banal, repetitive superhero extended universes. I am happy that the powers that be decided to throw superhero-level money at him, but more extras and less computers would have been a better way to spend this money.
In the end, Guillermo del Toro’s Frankenstein is akin to Tim Burton’s Charlie & The Chocolate Factory, or Christopher Nolan’s The Prestige. Not necessarily the film he will be remembered by, nor a perfect film (few are, nor should be) but certainly an auteur operating in grand form, well within in a comfortable wheelhouse. His hands were not burned, however. Maybe, just maybe, they should have been singed a little bit more.