A pillar of the craftsmanship community, Guillermo del Toro once again proves that few
filmmakers can sculpt worlds with such haunting tenderness. This film is a tactile symphony of
sentiment and beauty, a reminder that his artistry is as much about texture as it is about story.

The use of marble throughout is nothing short of masterful: cold, luminous, and elegant. It
evokes the making of a Greek god, something divine trapped in stone, a sculptor trying to carve
life back into grief. It’s in details like these that the film reveals its true power. As del Toro himself
noted, and as I had picked up while watching, the only thing Victor ever drinks is milk. Easy to
overlook, devastating once understood. It’s his quiet yearning for the mother he lost, an infantile
grasp for comfort he can no longer name.

Then there’s the haunting repetition of red: Mia Goth’s necklace and hair echoing the color of
Victor’s mother’s dress. A thread binding life to loss. In del Toro’s language, red is tragedy; red
is the violation of innocence. A prophecy. A stain. A warning.

In many ways, Frankenstein is the spiritual sibling of Pinocchio. Both are stories of men who
wish to outwit God by creating life. In his hands, these myths become meditations on faith. His
worlds are cathedrals built for heretics, and his monsters are the ones who pray most sincerely.
Visually, Frankenstein perfects what Crimson Peak began. The opulent gothic architecture, the
decadence of costume and candlelight. Everything returns, but sharpened, refined, reverent.
And like Pan’s Labyrinth, this film understands innocence as something fragile, something
hunted. Ofelia and the creature share a spiritual lineage: both are gentle beings ensnared by the
cruelties of others.

Then comes the philosophical spine of the film, the question of who is the true monster, which
del Toro frames like the Liar Paradox. Victor presents himself as a rational creator, yet his hubris
and refusal to take responsibility render him morally monstrous. His creature, meanwhile, is
marked as a monster for its appearance, though it shows more empathy and moral clarity than
its maker. Any assertion about monstrosity collapses into contradiction. To call Victor the
monster overlooks the creature’s suffering and agency; to call the creature the monster ignores
Victor’s culpability. Del Toro blurs these boundaries, suggesting that monstrosity is not inherent
but relational. Creator and creation mirror each other’s failures. Identity, like truth, becomes
unstable.

People are understandably upset that Frankenstein isn’t a 1:1 adaptation of Mary Shelley’s
novel. I get it. The original text is sacred to many, a cornerstone of gothic literature and a
philosophical inquiry into creation, responsibility, and monstrosity. But at the same time, it’s an
adaptation. Cinema has always taken liberties. Sometimes it works spectacularly (Jurassic Park
barely resembles Crichton’s novel and yet is a masterpiece), and sometimes it absolutely
doesn’t (I Am Legend comes to mind, a brilliant book flattened into a completely different
message on screen).

But do I think Guillermo del Toro committed any injustice here? No. Not even close. The central
themes: parenthood, abandonment, the consequences of neglect, the hubris of creation without
compassion, remain intact. If anything, he refracts them through new lenses without ever
breaking their essence. And yes, at times the film is more on-the-nose than Shelley’s slow,
epistolary dread. But people do, and always will, miss the point unless you carve it clearly into
the marble.

In comparison to other attempts at adapting Frankenstein, del Toro’s version does the monster
right. Too often, the creature is reduced to either a terrifying brute or a mere curiosity; here, he is
fully realized, empathetic, morally aware, and heartbreakingly human in his suffering. The film
allows the audience to see him as both creation and person, a living reflection of Victor’s
failures, rather than a simple horror trope. In this, del Toro surpasses many earlier adaptations,
honoring Shelley’s complex vision while giving it a fresh, emotionally resonant life on screen.
Ultimately, del Toro honours the spirit of Frankenstein even as he reshapes its body. That, to
me, is the mark of a successful adaptation

Featured Image courtesy of Le Mucky via Unsplash. No changes have been made to this image. Image license found here.