Gothic cinema has been officially resurrected, and the latest interpretation of literature and film’s most iconic “monster” is set to become one of the year’s most memorable releases. While the film does not follow Mary Shelley’s 1818 novel beat for beat, it remains deeply faithful to the spirit of the original, using and reframing the “misunderstood monster” trope. For Guillermo Del Toro, this has long been a defining fascination – his monsters are never just creatures, but mirrors held up to humanity. He has described this film as the culmination of a lifelong passion, and with a long-awaited budget finally behind him, he delivers a visually stunning and thematically dense work. Beneath the breathtaking production design lie explorations of generational trauma, the psychological scars passed down through creation and abandonment, and the dangers of irresponsible science.

A friend of mine jokingly divided Del Toro’s filmography into “boy movies” and “girl movies,” and, surprisingly, the distinction holds. His “boy movies” – Hellboy, Pacific Rim, Blade II – lean into spectacle, comic-book energy, and creature-driven action. His “girl movies,” by contrast, linger on emotion, empathy, and trauma: Crimson Peak, The Shape of Water, and now his newest take on Frankenstein. This is not to say that Frankenstein cannot be enjoyed by the male audience, but rather that the film carries a particular emotional vision that resonates especially with the themes Mary Shelley wove into the original text. The film is both grotesque and gorgeous, filled with images of anatomical remains and dissection, yet the gothic atmosphere never loses its haunting beauty.

The idea of positioning Dr. Victor Frankenstein as the true monster is not new, but Del Toro pushes it further by portraying him as an ego-driven manchild. In Shelley’s novel, Victor recoils in disgust from his creation; in the film, his rejection stems from his refusal to accept responsibility. The parallels between Victor’s strained relationship with his father and his behavior toward his “scientific son” reinforce how his obsession with defeating death and his unresolved childhood trauma shapes every destructive choice he makes. By the film’s conclusion, as the creature becomes more human and Victor sinks deeper into monstrosity, the cycle of abuse finally breaks: Victor admits his failures, and the creature forgives him.

Del Toro makes an equally deliberate choice in portraying the creature as pure, gentle, and profoundly humane. At first he is essentially a child, learning the world from scratch. He longs for love, understanding, and acceptance. Throughout the film, your sympathy lies almost entirely with him: you root for him, mourn with him, and hope he finds a place in a world determined to misunderstand him. His encounters with the outside world, including animals and a family living in the forest, show how his identity is shaped by being nurtured. He mirrors what he sees, trying to understand which version of himself the world will allow him to be. Del Toro uses this to explain that monstrosity is assigned and not inherent; the creature becomes dangerous only when cornered, abandoned, or pushed to despair. Another affecting choice is Del Toro’s decision to construct the creature from the bodies of fallen soldiers. Rather than a patchwork of random corpses, he becomes a living archive of violence, stitched together from young men whose lives ended on a battlefield for causes far larger than themselves. Being born of violence and having a soul defined by gentleness makes a beautiful contrast that encapsulates one of the central conflicts of the film: even the most broken bodies can contain humanity.

The cast is exceptional. Mia Goth, already well-established as a modern scream queen, is a beautifully intuitive choice for Elizabeth Lavenza. She brings grace, tenderness, and a quiet emotional intelligence to the film. Her connection with the creature, played by Jacob Elordi, is especially affecting, even in their brief shared scenes. However, I do wish her character could have been given more narrative weight, as there is a sense that Elizabeth’s potential remains underexplored. Elordi himself is a standout – a 6 '5 figure covered in intricately designed, unsettling yet strangely beautiful makeup – he embodies the creature with childlike wonder and soulful vulnerability. Oscar Isaac is a convincingly tormented Victor Frankenstein, and Christoph Waltz delivers his usual precision and charisma. I do, however, have a few critiques. The nonlinear structure of the movie is not inherently problematic, but it causes the first half of the film to drag, weighed down by uneven pacing and occasionally clunky dialogue. The second half is far stronger, with richer character interactions and sharper emotional focus. While Del Toro’s practical effects and set designs are stunning as always, some scenes with Netflix-quality CGI (particularly those involving animals) dampen the film’s visual intensity. It is also disappointing that the film did not receive a wide theatrical release; so much of its texture, scale, and craftsmanship begs to be experienced in a cinema rather than compressed through streaming. The ending, though emotionally charged, feels slightly rushed. The final reconciliation between creator and creation hinges on a single apology. Whether this moment is meant to suggest the simplicity of forgiveness or the exhaustion of endless conflict is open to interpretation, but the abruptness left me conflicted.

Ultimately, Del Toro’s Frankenstein is a beautiful, ambitious retelling of Mary Shelley’s revolutionary work. More than anything, the film is a powerful warning about the responsibility we hold toward the lives we shape – not only in the familial sense but in every act of creation, scientific or otherwise. It is a story about what we owe to one another, and what happens when those obligations are abandoned.