Even after years of establishing himself as the ultimate fantasy auteur, it took winning a Best Director Oscar to give Guillermo del Toro the freedom to realize long-dismissed passion projects. Known for decades as the “unrealized projects guy,” he partnered with Netflix, whose preference for recognizable IP aligned with his backlog of obsessions. The results were Pinocchio (2022) and Cabinet of Curiosities (2022), with the former proving that his prestige and audience appeal could go hand in hand. That success finally secured the green light for the project he had pursued for years and written many scripts for: Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.
As a filmmaker who grew from makeup effects artist to the most recognizable fantasy director working today, it is clear why this material has always appealed to the Mexican auteur. Shelley’s themes run through much of his filmography: monsters as tragic figures, outsiders yearning for connection, cautionary tales of unchecked ambition, even in places as unlikely as Pacific Rim. In a way, del Toro has been rehearsing Frankenstein all along. But that also leaves the impression that he has already said what he needed to say with the material, and what remains is the aesthetic realization. Having drawn and re-drawn the Creature since childhood, he had a clear vision of how everything should look, and the film is indeed as visually impressive as years of preparation promised. Yet that focus on design comes at the expense of the story’s beating heart. The film often feels as if del Toro assumes we will feel the themes as deeply as he does, without fully bringing them to life on screen.
This makes it especially surprising that his adaptation is, in many respects, the most faithful ever mounted. He preserves Shelley’s Arctic frame narrative and shifting chapter perspectives, and he avoids sanitizing Victor. But in the process, he stumbles on the very core of the novel: the relationship between Victor and the Creature. Oscar Isaac can be magnetic (his performance in The Force Awakens remains one of the great portrayals of cinematic enthusiasm), yet plays Victor with a heaviness that unbalances the story from the start. He looks too old and weary, which prevents us from seeing the ambition of a man losing his innocence. Instead, we see someone already disillusioned and deeply unlikable. Without that spark, his bond with the Creature feels like a series of mechanical story beats, as if his path could never lead anywhere, a feeling no amount of visual flourish can rescue. The same void surrounds Mia Goth’s Elizabeth, who drifts into the film out of obligation more than narrative weight. Her reactions to Victor’s work, especially her response to the Creature and her final action, lack impact and leave the drama even thinner.
The one undeniable source of emotion comes from Jacob Elordi, whose performance is the film’s revelation. An actor I did not expect to bring such weight delivers a heartbreaking, physical embodiment of sorrow and longing. Aided by superb makeup design, he uses body language and expression to give the Creature humanity and vulnerability. The film is strongest when centered on him and his desire for acceptance. Even here, though, del Toro’s priorities show through: the famous blind man encounter, which should be transformative, is staged with less attention than a wolf attack sequence that follows it. The director seems more invested in framing spectacle than in landing the simple emotional pivot that defines the Creature’s world view.
Visually, the film is monumental. Its scale, chaptered structure, and grandiose sets fully transport us into its universe. This is a film that deserves to be seen on the largest screen possible. The production design is immersive, the costumes and makeup are exemplary, and the cinematography is consistently striking. Bursts of violence add a welcome severity, and several sequences impress on scope and craft alone. On the surface, this is a towering work.
Yet in the end, the film mirrors Alexandre Desplat’s score. The French composer, renowned for refined orchestration and intricate textures, provides a gorgeous soundtrack that captures the mood both Shelley and del Toro aimed for. It swells grandly in the film’s most striking scenes and turns elegant in its quieter passages. But as usual, his precision feels anonymous. As with much of his work, the music envelops the film without leaving a lasting imprint. What it needed, like the film itself, was a bold, memorable theme, something to stay with us beyond the runtime. For all the faults of Branagh’s earlier adaptation, his collaboration with Patrick Doyle achieved that in its creation sequence, where theme and character fused with striking clarity. Del Toro’s version, for all its cohesion and grandeur, cannot replace the memory of that moment, because it lacks the same emotional focus. By overlooking the simple but essential relationship at the center, this Frankenstein becomes a work of immense surface beauty, but one held back from true greatness.
This is part of Reviews On Reels TIFF 2025 Coverage. Due to the hectic rhythm of a film festival, it may be tweaked in the future.
Still courtesy of TIFF and Netflix
Still courtesy of Netflix
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- Where to watch
Netflix- Where to watch
- Netflix
Play trailer
- Original title
- Frankenstein
- Director
- Guillermo del Toro
- Cast
- Oscar Isaac, Jacob Elordi, Christoph Waltz, Mia Goth, Felix Kammerer, Charles Dance, David Bradley, Lars Mikkelsen
- Rated
- 14A
- Screenwriter
- Michael Derrah, Guillermo del Toro
- Composer
- Alexandre Desplat
- Cinematography
- Dan Laustsen
- Editor
- Evan Schiff
- Country
- Language
- English
- Budget
- $120 million
- Box office
- 480678
- Distributor (CA)
- Netflix