Guillermo Del Toro’s 2025 adaptation of Frankenstein is not a mere retelling of Mary Shelley’s classic but a haunting reinvention. The story follows the brilliant but troubled Victor Frankenstein as he creates a living being from dead tissue, only to face devastating consequences. His Creature struggles with loneliness, longing, and a desire for connection after abandonment, while Victor’s obsession entangles those around him in grief, shaping the tragedy that runs through the film.
Blending Gothic horror, dark fantasy, and romantic tragedy, Frankenstein fits seamlessly within Del Toro’s signature genre. The film had a limited theatrical release but is available on Netflix, allowing the film’s artistry and emotional depth to find the life it deserves. Del Toro shifts the focus away from the Creature’s monstrosity and toward the painful human need for connection that drives both creator and creation
The director adds his own twist by emphasizing love over science, elevating the entire film. Making Elizabeth Victor’s brother’s fiancée immediately heightens the sense of longing and distance surrounding Victor. His unspoken feelings, isolation, and his need for control all settle beneath the surface, shaping the choices that eventually consume him. The Creature’s innocent yearning for Elizabeth echoes this sense of unreachable affection, turning their connection into one of the film’s most poignant threads, and underlining the grief that shadows both their lives.
In an interview with Variety Del Toro said, “The usual discourse of Frankenstein has to do with science gone awry. But for me, it’s about the human spirit. It’s not a cautionary tale: It’s about forgiveness, understanding and the importance of listening to each other.” His focus on love over science is refreshing, but fans of Shelley’s original themes may feel the scientific conflict is underplayed.
Narratively, the adaptation reshapes certain elements such as the childhood background and Elizabeth’s circumstances to emphasize the themes it prioritizes. The addition of Henrich Harlander, a mysterious benefactor created specifically for this film, adds tension and moral pressure that doesn’t exist in Shelley’s novel. The strengthened emotional bond between Elizabeth and the Creature also reframes the tragedy in a more intimate way. These changes feel like new perspectives rather than corrections.
The Creature becomes the emotional core of the film (bravo Jacob Elordi). His desire for love is portrayed with vulnerability and confusion. His early insistence on saying only “Victor” carries enormous weight, showing how deeply he attaches himself to the only source of affection he knows—and how quickly that attachment becomes suffering. He is not a figure of horror but a being shaped by loneliness and need. The deliberate pacing lets moments of tenderness and terror land fully, ensuring the audience feels every pang of longing, fear, and grief.
The casting reinforces the film’s emotional depth without overpowering it. Oscar Isaac conveys Victor’s mix of brilliance and immaturity, reflecting his struggle with control and obsession. Elordi’s Creature maintains a vulnerable, human presence throughout the film. Christoph Waltz’s portrayal of Harlander heightens the stakes, and Mia Goth’s dual role as Victor’s mother and Elizabeth adds a layered connection between memory, desire, and loss.
Visually, the film is stunning. Del Toro’s use of red works like a heartbeat running through the story, with the red dress of Victor’s mother and bursts of blood that stand out against the film’s cool, desaturated palette. The cinematography leans heavily into contrast, with deep shadows that swallow entire rooms, candlelight that carves out faces, and wide, lonely shots that make Victor and the Creature look small within their own tragedy. The early symmetrical framing reflects Victor’s desire for order and control, while later chaotic shots mirror his collapse. References to religious art, including Renaissance-inspired tableaux, give the film an elegant, almost sacred atmosphere. It is a visual experience that feels both grounded and dreamlike.
In an interview with Netflix, Del Toro and Oscar Isaac explain the film’s color theory: “Each character has a color. Victor’s red. The father and Harlander are blue, and the only green in the movie comes with Elizabeth.”
The use of color deepens the psychological ties between Victor and his mother. Red first marks her warmth, vitality, and emotional center of Victor’s ambitions and early life. After her death, it symbolizes the unresolved longing and grief he carries. When Elizabeth later takes on that red, the film subtly suggests Victor’s attraction to her is entangled with grief, projecting his mother’s image onto the only other person who embodies that color.
His constant drinking of milk further emphasizes his emotional immaturity and inability to detach from his childhood. Together, these choices underline Victor’s fixation on life and death: he clings to maternal symbolism while attempting to conquer mortality itself, blurring the line between love and obsession.
Del Toro’s Frankenstein doesn’t replace Shelley’s novel—it expands it. As someone who first read the novel in high school and was struck deeply by the Creature’s loneliness, I found this version even more devastating. This is a retelling shaped by love and grief, and it lingers with the viewer long after the credits roll.
