Frankenstein Review – Guillermo del Toro Breathes New Life Into Mary Shelley’s Classic With a Grand, Emotionally Devastating Vision Led by Oscar Isaac and Jacob Elordi

Few filmmakers working today seem as destined to reinterpret Frankenstein as Guillermo del Toro. For decades, his work has drawn deeply from Gothic literature and the shadows of old-world horror — from Cronos and The Devil’s Backbone to Pan’s Labyrinth and Crimson Peak. His long-gestating adaptation of Mary Shelley’s 1818 novel finally arrives as both a culmination of his career-long fascinations and a reawakening of one of the most retold stories in cinema.

Del Toro’s Frankenstein isn’t a simple horror movie; it’s an operatic blend of tragedy, beauty, and philosophical inquiry — a story about creation, loss, and the fragile border between life and death. It’s as much about the ache of existence as it is about the terror of defying nature.

The Bottom Line:

It’s alive — and breathtakingly human.
Premiere: Venice Film Festival (Competition)
Theatrical Release: Oct. 17 | Streaming: Nov. 7 on Netflix
Cast: Oscar Isaac, Jacob Elordi, Mia Goth, Christoph Waltz, Felix Kammerer, Lars Mikkelsen, David Bradley, Charles Dance
Director/Writer: Guillermo del Toro (based on Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus)
Runtime: 2h 29m | Rated: R

A Story Reborn

Del Toro’s take on Frankenstein begins not in a laboratory but on a frozen wasteland. Amid an Arctic expedition, a Danish sea captain (Lars Mikkelsen) and his crew stumble upon a mysterious blaze on the horizon. There, among the snow and smoke, they find a half-dead man — Victor Frankenstein (Oscar Isaac) — battered, frostbitten, and haunted. Before long, the true monster — or perhaps victim — emerges: a towering, cloaked Creature (Jacob Elordi), whose pursuit of his creator forms the spine of the story.

The film unfolds in three movements — a Prelude, followed by Victor’s Tale and The Creature’s Tale. Through Victor’s fevered recollections, we see the proud young scientist’s journey from idealism to obsession, from the spark of creation to the despair of guilt.

The Creator and His Creation

Oscar Isaac’s Victor Frankenstein is a man torn apart by genius. Isaac plays him not as a madman but as a visionary artist whose brilliance curdles into hubris. His performance is magnetic — sharp, expressive, and deeply wounded. We see a man driven by grief over his mother’s death and resentment toward his cold, authoritarian father (Charles Dance), a doctor whose strict rationalism leaves no room for empathy.

Victor’s intellectual arrogance leads him into partnership with Heinrich Harlander (Christoph Waltz), a calculating arms dealer who funds his resurrection experiments for reasons less noble than scientific curiosity. Waltz’s silky menace and controlled charisma add a chilling edge — his character represents the commercialization of science, the corruption of discovery for profit.

Then there’s Elizabeth (Mia Goth), Victor’s soon-to-be sister-in-law, a woman of grace, intelligence, and quiet rebellion. Goth, often associated with more overtly macabre roles, here plays against type. Her Elizabeth is luminous — more than a muse, she’s the film’s moral compass. Dressed in Kate Hawley’s stunning period costumes, each one a symbolic burst of color amid the film’s shadowy palette, Elizabeth becomes the embodiment of beauty and compassion in a world consumed by ego and ambition.

And at the center of it all stands The Creature — brought to life by Jacob Elordi in a career-defining performance. Unlike most depictions of Frankenstein’s monster, Elordi’s version is hauntingly innocent, almost childlike in his discovery of the world. His enormous frame moves with awkward tenderness, his eyes filled with confusion and longing. This is not a monster born evil; he’s a newborn thrust into a cruel existence.

A Symphony of Sight and Sound

Del Toro’s visual imagination is in full bloom here. Working with longtime collaborators — cinematographer Dan Lausten, production designer Tamara Deverell, and costume designer Kate Hawley — he creates a world that feels tactile and mythic at once. The film glows with deep, saturated colors: emerald greens, blood reds, and cold silvers that evoke both romance and decay. Every frame feels painted by candlelight.

The laboratory sequence, a centerpiece of the film, is a masterwork of design. Constructed in an isolated castle on the Scottish coast, it’s a massive, hand-built set of iron, stone, and flickering lightning. It’s less a workshop than a cathedral of science — a place of worship for a man who believes he can rival God. The Latin inscription “Aqua est vita” (“Water is life”) carved across the entrance feels like a benediction and a curse.

Alexandre Desplat’s lush orchestral score pulses beneath the imagery like a living heart. His music swells from thunderous brass to fragile, trembling strings, mirroring the story’s shift from awe to heartbreak. It’s easily one of the composer’s most powerful works, enhancing the film’s mythic tone while grounding it in human emotion.

Emotion Beneath the Horror

While Frankenstein offers its share of gothic spectacle — reanimation sequences, stormy nights, flickering torches — del Toro isn’t interested in cheap scares. His focus is the emotional devastation at the core of Shelley’s story: the relationship between creator and creation, father and son.

Victor’s greatest sin isn’t playing God — it’s abandoning what he made. The Creature, denied affection and understanding, becomes a tragic mirror of his maker’s flaws. When he asks, “Did you ever wonder which part holds the soul?”, it’s a question that pierces both Victor and the audience.

Elordi’s Creature evolves from frightened child to tormented philosopher. In one of the film’s most affecting sequences, he finds refuge with a blind old man (David Bradley), who teaches him language and kindness. Their brief friendship recalls the most touching moments of James Whale’s Bride of Frankenstein (1935), a film del Toro openly honors. When the Creature learns to speak the word “friend,” the moment lands with pure, heartbreaking simplicity.

But the discovery of Victor’s notebook changes everything. When he realizes he was stitched together from “the refuse of death,” the Creature’s innocence collapses into despair. “There was silence again,” he narrates, “and then merciless life.” It’s one of del Toro’s most devastating scenes — a meditation on existence itself, on the agony of being unable to die or be truly loved.

Performances That Resonate

Isaac’s portrayal of Victor is layered with guilt and longing, a man consumed by his own brilliance. His descent from arrogant genius to broken soul is riveting to watch. Elordi, towering and vulnerable, gives the Creature a soulful humanity that lingers long after the credits. Together, they embody the eternal struggle between creation and creator — love and rejection, power and regret.

Mia Goth’s Elizabeth adds warmth and complexity, her performance proving she’s capable of far more than the horror-genre archetypes she’s often cast in. Christoph Waltz brings slippery sophistication, and veterans like Charles Dance and David Bradley lend gravitas to the story’s emotional underpinnings.

A Tragic Beauty

In the end, del Toro’s Frankenstein is less a horror movie than a grand romantic tragedy — an opera of grief, faith, and fragile humanity. As the Creature declares, “I cannot die. And I cannot live alone,” the film reaches its emotional peak, capturing the eternal loneliness of creation unmoored from love.

The film closes with a quote from Lord Byron: “And thus the heart will break, and yet brokenly live on.” It’s a line that captures both the Creature’s sorrow and del Toro’s vision — a world where beauty and suffering are inseparable.

For del Toro, this is not merely an adaptation; it’s a personal exorcism — a reflection on fathers, monsters, and the thin thread connecting creation and compassion.

Guillermo del Toro’s Frankenstein stands among his most accomplished works — a film of immense beauty, pain, and imagination. With extraordinary performances from Oscar Isaac and Jacob Elordi, breathtaking visuals, and a score that pulses with emotion, it redefines a familiar tale into something hauntingly original.

Though Netflix plans only a brief theatrical window before streaming, this is a film that demands to be seen on the biggest screen possible — every frame hums with cinematic grandeur.