The world has long outgrown the need for more Frankenstein movies. Mary Shelley’s warhorse has been mangled, spoofed, and repurposed hundreds of times over the last hundred years. Every new attempt to reanimate this corpse only makes the earlier versions look even more vital. Before it even fades in, Guillermo del Toro’s take on the material must work itself out of that hole.
Thankfully, del Toro is just the filmmaker for that task. As a visual auteur, he crams every frame of Frankenstein with eye-popping opulence. The result is an aesthetic triumph that keeps us hooked by virtue of its sheer magnificence. Sure, the film’s storytelling can’t clear the same bar, but it’s hard to fault a director for aiming so high.
This is normally where I cobble together a plot synopsis, but do I really need to? Shelley’s novel is iconic enough to be familiar for people who haven’t even read it. Plus, James Whale’s 1931 adaptation laid the groundwork for modern horror. For anybody still out of the loop, I’ll boil it down to an elevator pitch: Set some 200 years ago, Frankenstein centers on a brilliant, egotistical scientist’s attempt to play god and bring an undead golem back to life. The resulting horror-drama examines the existential crisis for a creature caught between life and death, and the ensuing madness for the man who created him.
Devotees of Shelley’s source material will find refreshing flourishes of fidelity in del Toro’s approach. The book’s opening on the arctic sea gets preserved here, as does the spiritually ambiguous relationship between Dr. Viktor Frankenstein (Oscar Isaac) and his Creature (Jacob Elordi). Unlike James Whale’s landmark masterpiece, del Toro presents the monster as Shelley intended: Not as a growling monosyllabic brute, but an intelligent, passionate being, heartbroken by his creator’s abandonment.
That said, del Toro also makes some crucial deviations. The dynamic between monster and maker is a bit different, with the creature depicted as more of an innocent being. Also, the origins of the story’s female lead have changed (again): Elizabeth (Mia Goth) is now the fiancee of Viktor’s younger brother (Felix Kammerer). Her feelings on the wild-eyed doctor are much more ambiguous in this version.
Ultimately, del Toro delivers the best of both worlds: This Frankenstein plays familiar notes, while interpolating a new melody that’s distinctly del Torian. The result is an invigorating take on the material. Even at 150 minutes, the film is relentlessly compelling, and offers up a few refreshing flourishes.
This confident, muscular storytelling is further abetted by top-shelf performances from the leads. Isaac plays Frankenstein as a charismatic genius who is swept away by hubristic madness. Meanwhile, Elordi is a revelation as the patchwork creature, blessed and cursed with self-awareness. He’s tragic, resilient, and resolutely human–often in the span of one scene. Elordi wisely eschews any imitation of Karloff (or De Niro, for that matter) and builds a brand new performance. It’s impressive to behold.
Del Toro has less success with the supporting characters. Goth is a fine actress, but Elizabeth never feels fully developed. She exists to recoil from both the doctor and his creation, effectively pointing out the monstrous side of both. Beyond that, Elizabeth has no depth or personality. The film desperately needs an emotional and spiritual grounding for the supernatural turmoil of Frankenstein and his monster. Unfortunately, Goth never gets enough screen time to connect. The same goes for Waltz as Dr. Frankenstein’s wealthy benefactor. He’s a tantalizing, cheerfully impish presence who deepens the moral conundrum surrounding the mad doctor. Despite its long runtime, we need more of both these characters.
Still, Frankenstein is a magnificent exercise of cinema. It probably won’t win Best Picture (my bet still goes to One Battle After Another), but the film should take home plenty of awards for its sheer craftsmanship. Dan Laustsen’s stunning cinematography invigorates the screen, cramming it with as much visual information as our eyes can process. Composer Alexandre Desplat laces his lush score with heartbreaking motifs for the creature. With all that said, the film’s real MVP might be Tamara Deverell, who delivers towering Gothic sets that bring del Toro’s vision to life.
In the end, this Frankenstein lands in a weird area. It’s a fascinating, sumptuous labor of love. Every frame radiates skill and passion. Yet, it never quite elevates to greatness. Del Toro wants to steer his material into an existential rumination on life and death and fathers and sons. Unfortunately, Dr. Frankenstein remains too enigmatic and aloof for the film’s emotional impact. If Frankenstein‘s reach had met its grasp, we might’ve had a masterpiece for the ages.
150 min. R. Netflix.
