The Film Edit

In Frankenstein (2025), Guillermo del Toro revisits Mary Shelley’s gothic masterpiece with a depth and empathy few filmmakers could achieve. Starring Oscar Isaac as Victor Frankenstein, Jacob Elordi as the Creature, and Mia Goth as Elizabeth Lavenza, the film transcends horror to explore creation, grief, and moral consequence. Del Toro’s vision fuses the poetic melancholy of The Shape of Water with the philosophical tension of Pan’s Labyrinth, crafting a world where beauty and monstrosity coexist—and where the true horror lies not in the monster, but in the maker.

What is Frankenstein about?

At its heart, Frankenstein is the story of a man consumed by obsession. Victor Frankenstein, a brilliant but tormented scientist, defies the boundaries of mortality by reanimating life from death—only to discover that the act of creation binds him to guilt, alienation, and despair. Del Toro reinterprets Shelley’s tale as a study of ambition and regret, locating its relevance in today’s culture of innovation without accountability. The film’s moral inquiry—what happens when humanity plays god—feels startlingly current in an age of artificial intelligence, genetic editing, and moral fatigue.

How does del Toro reimagine the legend?

Del Toro’s Frankenstein is both faithful and radical. Gone is the lightning-scorched laboratory cliché; instead, the film unfolds in candlelit studies, decaying estates, and snow-swept European streets. The visual language, captured on 35 mm by Dan Laustsen, evokes 19th-century romantic paintings—every frame a study in shadow and sorrow. Alexandre Desplat’s score moves like breath: haunting, restrained, occasionally symphonic. The creature, portrayed by Jacob Elordi, is less an abomination than an abandoned child—his stitched form softened by sadness rather than terror.

Who brings this world to life?

Oscar Isaac’s Victor Frankenstein is magnetic—brilliant, fragile, consumed by guilt. His descent from visionary to recluse is rendered with extraordinary restraint, a performance that balances arrogance with grief. Jacob Elordi gives the Creature a rare vulnerability, his towering frame offset by trembling innocence. Mia Goth’s Elizabeth—more muse than martyr—embodies del Toro’s preoccupation with empathy as resistance. The supporting cast, including Christoph Waltz, Felix Kammerer, and Charles Dance, lend gothic gravitas without overshadowing the film’s emotional core.

When did Frankenstein premiere?

The film premiered out of competition at the 82nd Venice International Film Festival in August 2025, where it received a ten-minute standing ovation and early comparisons to The Shape of Water. It was released in select U.S. cinemas on October 17, 2025, followed by a Netflix global debut on November 7, 2025.

What themes define this adaptation?

Like Shelley’s original, Frankenstein is not about science—it’s about responsibility. Del Toro frames creation as both miracle and curse: Victor’s success isolates him, while his creation’s loneliness mirrors his own. The film blurs the line between parent and child, genius and cruelty, invention and inheritance. Themes of grief, artistry, and moral awakening pulse through every frame. It’s a portrait of men haunted by their own capacity to love and destroy—a theme that feels unmistakably del Toro.

How has the film been received?

Critics have called Frankenstein a career-defining work. The Guardian described it as “a symphony of sorrow and awe.” Variety praised its craftsmanship, noting that “del Toro restores the soul to a story long stripped of nuance.” Some critics, however, found its pacing deliberate, its emotion overwhelming—qualities that del Toro’s admirers would call virtues. At Venice, Oscar Isaac’s performance drew near-unanimous acclaim for its emotional precision.

Why does Frankenstein matter now?

Two centuries after Mary Shelley imagined the monster, del Toro’s retelling reminds us that creation—whether artistic, technological, or biological—always demands responsibility. In a world where innovation often outruns morality, Frankenstein feels prophetic. It asks: When we create without empathy, what do we become? The question echoes far beyond the lab, resonating with anyone navigating modern ambition and human consequence.

Currant’s Take

Frankenstein is less a resurrection than a reckoning. Del Toro strips away the myth to expose something raw and modern—the longing to be seen, the terror of being known. It is a film about creation as confession, and about the monsters we make when we cannot forgive ourselves. For women of style and substance, it’s a reminder that even the darkest stories can be acts of compassion.