Guillermo del Toro’s 'Frankenstein' Finds The Soul Beneath The Scars

HOLLYWOOD, CA — Alexander Pope’s “To err is human; to forgive divine” permeates Guillermo del Toro’s “Frankenstein” — a reimagining of Mary Shelley’s Gothic masterpiece, refracted through the prism of tragic beauty.

In a landscape crowded with reboots and franchises, del Toro’s take stands apart — elegiac, empathetic and unmistakably his. As in his earlier hallmarks, the Oscar-winning director uses monsters as vessels of empathy. “Pan’s Labyrinth” explored the horrors of violence and “The Shape of Water” offered a tender meditation on love. “Frankenstein,” meanwhile, amplifies both — presenting monstrosity as something deeply human.

Though faithful to Shelley’s prose, the Mexican auteur trades its bleak austerity for lush, operatic melancholy. What unfolds is a meditation on grief, identity and the cost of creation — a “Frankenstein” film that reaffirms del Toro’s place as cinema’s most empathetic mythmaker of monsters.

The film is structured in two acts. The first, “Victor’s Tale,” introduces young Victor Frankenstein (Christian Convery), a precocious child shaped by the loss of his mother and the emotional abandonment of his father.

Her death marks the beginning of Victor’s descent — a slow drift into grief and obsession that deepens over time. Del Toro lingers deliberately in this early chapter, prioritizing tone over tempo. The pacing reflects Victor’s unraveling psyche, steeped in sorrow and isolation.

As he matures, Victor (Oscar Isaac) becomes a brilliant scientist, consumed by the desire to conquer death. His research grows obsessive, even as Elizabeth (Mia Goth), his confidante and love interest, offers fleeting solace.

Despite the accolades and romantic promise, Victor remains emotionally hollow. His mania culminates in the unthinkable: dead flesh stirs, and the Creature is born — ushering in the film’s second act, “The Creature’s Tale.”

Whereas the first half charts Victor’s development of a God complex, the second pivots the lens from creator to creation. The Creature (Jacob Elordi) emerges not as a monster, but as a soul encountering the world — a tonal inversion of past versions.

This soulful reimagining finds its emotional anchor in Elizabeth, whose warmth and grace awaken the Creature’s empathy and soften the chasm between him and Victor. However, upon her death, that delicate connection is shattered, leaving the Creature emotionally adrift. Untethered and yearning to belong, he attempts to assimilate — but society recoils at his appearance. As he is rejected and dehumanized, the Creature’s sorrow festers into slow-burning grief, igniting his desire for vengeance. And so begins his unraveling.

Much of the film’s power lies in the leads, each bringing depth to del Toro’s elegiac vision of humanity.

Isaac brings icy gravitas to the role, revealing a man haunted by egotism — desperate to master life, yet helpless to confront his own pain. Goth, meanwhile, inhabits the role with profound presence, grounding the film’s operatic sweep with tenderness and restraint.

Finally, Elordi delivers a hauntingly tender performance, nearly unrecognizable beneath 42 prosthetic pieces. His towering physicality never dwarfs his expressive range, channeling an innocence slowly eroded by rejection — a soul aching to be seen.

Together, they echo Pope’s sentiment: “To err is human; to forgive, divine.” Each performance reveals not just the flaws of creation, but the fragile mercy that might redeem it.

Del Toro directs “Frankenstein” with operatic scale and emotional precision, immersing the viewers in mood rather than momentum to explore grief and obsession. It is another hauntingly beautiful entry in his cinematic oeuvre — a breathtaking meditation on monsters and their mournful humanity.

Cinematographer Dan Laustsen, meanwhile, punctuates this vision with wide-angle lenses and rich chiaroscuro, stretching space and shadow to mirror the characters’ inner turmoil. Every frame feels sculpted and deeply human.

And yet, for all its visual splendor and emotional ambition, “Frankenstein” falters under the weight of its pacing in the first act. Del Toro’s deliberate rhythm, meant to echo Shelley’s prose, is admirable — but it lingers too long in emotionally saturated terrain.

Eventually, as the focus shifts to the Creature — lachrymose, emotive and achingly human — del Toro redeems the story with clarity and emotional purpose.

That precision, however, doesn’t fully extend to the film’s score. Alexandre Desplat’s composition occasionally struggles to match the film’s operatic ambition.

In one of its most poignant scenes — when Victor introduces the Creature to the sun — the moment begs for musical exhalation. The Creature’s awe, his eyes sparkling with childlike wonder, is a visual feast. Yet Desplat’s score remains surprisingly subdued, underpowered when the moment begs for release.

Ultimately, “Frankenstein” is less horror than requiem. Victor errs in his hubris, the Creature in his longing, and humanity in its silence. Del Toro offers no easy absolution, only the fragile hope of grace. Elegiac yet deeply human, this adaptation reminds us that the most terrifying thing isn’t the monster — it’s the absence of compassion.

To forgive the Creature. To forgive the maker. To forgive the fear that shaped them both — that is the most divine act of all.