Why was the monster cursed from the day he was born? Guillermo del Toro finally tells the story of this being, unwanted and unloved by anyone, who still tried to understand the world in his own words.
It was the mid-18th century. A ship was trapped in the dark Arctic sea. Surrounded by ice, unable to move, a blood-soaked man lay collapsed on the deck. His name was Victor Frankenstein. And the shadow pursuing him was something neither human nor beast.
Since Mary Shelley created the gothic novel masterpiece “Frankenstein” in 1818, hundreds of visual adaptations have tackled the question of “Frankenstein.” The latest and most sincere answer unfolds before your screen now.
Two centuries later, del Toro confronts Mary Shelley’s enduring question—“What does the creator owe to the creature he has made?”—head-on, cloaking it in opulent Baroque artistry and a fierce human drama. He mourns the monster and questions humanity.
A warning about science and the inherited question
Mary Shelley, Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus (1818)
The original work for this film is a Gothic novel published by British author Mary Shelley at the age of 21. Born from a “ghost story contest” among poets including Lord Byron and Percy Shelley, this tale was released in 18th-century London—a time when the Industrial Revolution accelerated rapidly, steam engines transformed cities, and technology began to fuel the belief that “man might usurp the work of God.”
As its subtitle, “A Modern Prometheus,” suggests, this story depicts the arrogance and consequences of those who trespass into the divine realm to create life. It was published anonymously, reflecting the constraints of an era where science fiction by female authors faced significant resistance.
Even in 2025, when AI is part of daily life, the original work’s question—“What does the creator owe the created?”—remains. Its urgency has only grown. Del Toro completed this film while openly opposing generative AI. ‘Frankenstein’ is both a revival of the classic and a sincere inquiry into the ethics of creation.
A story loved for 200 years and a 30-year-long aspiration.
Since Mary Shelley created it in 1818, “Frankenstein” has been adapted into countless films. These range from the bolt-necked giant of Universal’s monster movies to Kenneth Branagh’s 1994 version, and even comedies and action films. The story has survived by embracing every interpretation. Few other stories touch on such universal human questions so deeply.
Guillermo del Toro’s fascination with the gothic horror tale “Frankenstein” stemmed from this very rich history. He credits the 1931 film version, which he encountered at age seven, as his initial spark. For over thirty years, he dreamed of bringing his own vision of the monster and scientist to the screen. His collaboration with Netflix finally realized this long-held ambition.
Because this project took so many years, the finished film is very dense. Such passion brings a depth no short project could achieve. It is reported that actors like Doug Jones, Benedict Cumberbatch, and Andrew Garfield were considered for the creature role. Ultimately, Jacob Elordi was cast. The wisdom of this choice becomes clear after watching.
Positioning this film within del Toro’s filmography, it seems to synthesize the allegorical quality of Pan’s Labyrinth (2006), the themes of love for monsters and loneliness from The Shape of Water (2017), and the theme of “the meaning of life and death” in Guillermo del Toro’s Pinocchio (2022), all of which converge here. Compared to Kenneth Branagh’s Frankenstein (1994), this film, at 2 hours and 29 minutes, is nearly 30 minutes longer than that 2-hour-and-3-minute work, yet it felt significantly shorter. This is solely due to the depth of emotional connection to the characters and the difference in the visual experience’s density.
The sculptural beauty of the monsters Del Toro creates
The moment the film ‘Frankenstein (2025)’ began, I was speechless at the sheer weight of its visuals.
This, of course, was the creature’s visual design that Frankenstein created. It stands apart from the flat, green, monstrous figures adopted by previous adaptations. The creature, portrayed by Jacob Elordi, possessed skin marked by stitches where different human body parts were sewn together, adorned with contrasting patches of color. Its grotesque beauty was utterly captivating. Grotesque yet possessing a strange elegance—this truly represents del Toro’s signature style.
Equally noteworthy is the use of animatronics (mechanical props) instead of CGI. This choice is surprising in 2025. The props and creatures have a physical, organic feel and add realism to the film, even on a TV. The Arctic ship set was built by converting a large parking lot. The life-sized hull, tilted on gimbals, gives an immersive sense of a different era.
When I encountered the monster design, which game creator Hideo Kojima described as “beautiful like modern art,” I found myself deeply nodding in agreement at the accuracy of his words.
Magnificent, Timeless Fashion Aesthetics
The costume design is a highlight of the film. Kate Hall designed costumes rooted in 19th-century Gothic style. Del Toro requested the use of “modern color palettes.”
The film’s style is closer to the drama and sensuality of Baroque painting than to the Renaissance elegance. The sharp contrasts of light and shadow make every costume feel full of life and emotion.
Among them, Elizabeth’s costumes, played by Mia Goth, radiated an overwhelming presence. Deep reds, muted gold embroidery, and blue velvet—when these colors filled the screen, I felt viewers were captivated by the sheer beauty of the design before they even followed the story. Every time she appeared on screen, it felt like a saint from a Baroque painting had stepped out of her frame.
The costume of the arms dealer Harlander, played by Christoph Waltz, is also striking. His military-style attire, tailored from high-quality materials, exudes the cold brilliance of power and capital, further accentuating Waltz’s unique, eerie neatness. In contrast, Leopold, played by Charles Dance, embodies authority and oppression with his combination of deep black and dark green, giving him a presence as if he had stepped out of a Rembrandt portrait of an aristocrat.
Contrasting the opulence, the monster’s simple clothing highlights a profound theme: a flawed human amidst beauty and an outcast creature striving for goodness, shown clearly through costume choices.
From Chapter 2, the narrative shifts dramatically when the narrator changes. As the monster’s voice replaces Victor’s, the story falls into the abyss, immersing viewers in a new emotional depth.
The movie “Frankenstein (2025)” starts with Victor telling his story aboard a ship in the Arctic. This setup is true to the original novel. The film uses several narrators, and this structure works well.
Chapter One is “Victor’s Story.” It follows a brilliant scientist who lost his parents at a young age and grew up with a violent father. He becomes obsessed with the idea of overcoming death. Oscar Isaac gives a magnetic performance. He is passionate and intelligent, but unaware of how deep his own desires go. Isaac captures this uncontrollable side of humanity very well.
But the film truly shines in Chapter Two. When the narrator becomes the creature, the story’s mood changes completely. The creature’s deep loneliness, shown in lines like “I didn’t ask to be made. I didn’t ask for an immortal body,” quietly but powerfully touches the heart.
The monster who escaped hid behind the wall of a hunter’s cabin in the forest. There, through a crack in the wall, he quietly observed the activities of the humans who exchanged words. Laughter, shouting, voices comforting each other—the outside world was filled with a flood of emotions he did not know. Those days of quiet observation became the first opportunity for the monster to ask himself, “Who am I?”
Eventually, the monster encounters a blind old man played by David Bradley. Because he cannot see, he is not afraid of the monster’s deformity and simply listens to its voice. The days spent with this wise man of the forest shine as the film’s most tranquil and beautiful moments. The old man taught the monster words, recited poetry, and conveyed the meaning of human joy and sorrow. As the monster learns words by the bonfire, we see the sprouting of intelligence and emotion, completely different from the emptiness that once dwelled within it at the moment of its creation. Their interactions functioned as a kind of educational drama within the gothic horror framework. Watching them warmed my heart, yet simultaneously heightened a poignant foreboding of the impending separation.
This chapter, following the monster’s growth as it learns its origins and begins to feel anger, felt like it transcended the boundaries of Gothic horror. And here, the sharp question of “violence without malice” emerges. The monster didn’t intend to “kill” from the moment it was born. Unable to control its emotions, unaware of how to moderate its intensity, it harms people precisely because it craves love—this structure defies a simple tale of good versus evil. The purer the monster’s innocence, the heavier the responsibility of its creator. The film depicts this weight of causality without any sentimentality.
Jacob Elordi’s performance is truly impressive. He shows, just through his expressions under heavy makeup, the monster’s journey from an innocent child to a being gaining intelligence with the old man, to a wounded youth, and finally to someone burning with revenge. It is breathtaking. After watching, it feels like no one else could have played this role, from his eyes to his physical presence.
The Question of the ‘Forgiveness’ Ending: Sudden or Inevitable?
And now, frankly speaking, about the climax, which becomes the biggest point of contention.
The ending near the very end, where Victor and the monster arrive at something close to “reconciliation,” certainly had an aspect that felt “sudden.” After building such intense conflict and hatred, the story’s landing on forgiveness through an old man’s presence left me with the discomfort of “realizing they’d reconciled before I knew it.”
Additionally, the sudden prominence of the “father figure” issue in the final act is also concerning. The dual structures of Victor and Leopold’s father-son relationship and of Victor and the monster’s pseudo-father-son relationship are crucial themes running through the entire film. However, the way this theme is rapidly compressed and resolved in the final act, compared to the meticulous build-up over the film’s 2 hours and 29 minutes, honestly felt somewhat anticlimactic.
On the other hand, I think Del Toro did not want a simple happy ending, but wanted to show the “emotion beyond anger.” If you notice the subtle Catholic themes of atonement and forgiveness in the film, the ending might seem less abrupt and more inevitable. The ending leaves room for interpretation, and whether you see this as del Toro’s sincerity or as something missing is up to each viewer.
Summary: The monster was a mirror of itself. Del Toro’s answer to an intolerant era
Netflix’s original film ‘Frankenstein (2025)’ certainly has its challenges: the abruptness of its climax, the underdeveloped father-son theme, and the question of whether all viewers can accept its two-and-a-half-hour runtime.
Even so, the film’s dignity and sincerity stand out. It directly revisits the questions Mary Shelley asked in Industrial Revolution-era London: “What burden must those who trespass into God’s domain bear?” and “What should be granted to the created?” Looking at these questions in the context of the AI era of 2025 is rare.
Del Toro has the monster say that “the emotion beyond anger” is what makes us human. In a time when intolerance is everywhere, Del Toro continues to believe in the possibility of “acceptance.” This might be one of his lifelong beliefs.
This is a film that stays with you, leaving you thinking about the monster’s loneliness long after you finish watching.
