I finally gave in to the Instagram reels hype and watched Guillermo del Toro’s Frankenstein this week. My watchlist had been more “empty buffet” than anything else, so why not? I went in with zero expectations — okay, maybe a tiny spark because Jacob Elordi and Oscar Isaac were attached — fully ready for another standard Frankenstein retelling. What I got was something entirely unexpected: a story that makes you feel, not just shudder.
Del Toro flips the familiar narrative. This isn’t a tale of a mindless monster terrorizing the world — it’s a story about perspective, responsibility, and the heartbreak of human neglect. From the moment the Creature, played by Jacob Elordi, opens his eyes, he is astonishingly alive — not just physically, but emotionally. Every small movement — mimicking Victor, reacting to the world with baby-like curiosity, learning, observing, yearning — reminds you that this being is not a villain but a soul striving to understand itself. And then the questions hit you, along with him: Who am I? Am I a monster? Do I even belong in this world? Elordi conveys this fragile intelligence and vulnerability so effectively that you feel every pang of rejection, every moment of tentative hope, and every heartbreak when the world refuses to answer his questions.
Opposite him, Oscar Isaac’s Victor Frankenstein embodies the duality of brilliance and obsession. Victor craves creation, control, and power, believing himself to be a godlike architect of life. Yet Del Toro shows us that in seeking dominion over death, Victor becomes blind to the consequences of his ambition. Isaac’s portrayal balances obsessive intensity with moments of human frailty, highlighting a man whose ego isolates him from love, empathy, and moral responsibility. In Victor, Del Toro illustrates the danger of ambition unmoored from conscience — the “modern Prometheus” who brings life into being without the guidance or care necessary to nurture it.
Elizabeth, portrayed by Mia Goth, becomes the moral and emotional heart of the story. She is not merely Victor’s love interest but a witness to, and participant in, the ethical questions the film raises. Through her compassion toward the Creature, she embodies the humanity he craves and the audience is invited to see what Victor cannot: that life, no matter how artificially created, deserves care and recognition. Elizabeth bridges the emotional gap between creator and creation, showing that empathy — not power — defines true moral responsibility.
This interplay between the characters strengthens the film’s central themes. The Creature’s longing for connection, Victor’s obsessive detachment, and Elizabeth’s guiding empathy combine to explore what it means to create, to abandon, and to recognize humanity in the other. The horror of the story does not lie in grotesque features or violent deeds; it lies in emotional neglect, isolation, and the failure to respond to the life one brings into the world. In Del Toro’s hands, Shelley’s story becomes less about terror and more about tragic, profoundly human emotion. The questions linger long after the credits roll: Who am I? Am I a monster? Or is the one who refuses to care the real monster?
Visually, the film is stunning. The snow-covered Arctic, the dimly lit laboratories, and the intricate Gothic sets immerse you in a world where beauty and dread coexist. The attention to detail — from the recreated lymphatic table to costumes that subtly mirror character arcs — reinforces the narrative: Victor’s reds mark obsession and loss, Elizabeth’s greens and blues signify life and empathy, and the Creature’s layered garments reflect the accumulation of experiences and trauma he endures. Every frame amplifies the story’s moral and emotional stakes.
However, the film is not without its slight imperfections. Certain sequences linger, slowing the pacing, and occasionally Victor edges toward the “mad scientist” cliché. Yet these moments are minor compared to the emotional resonance the movie achieves.
By the end, when the Creature walks away alone into the sunlight after forgiving Victor and freeing the trapped ship, it is not horror but heartbreak — a reminder that the real tragedy is the way we fail one another, even in life itself.
Sources: Variety, NY Books, Seattle Spectator
