Frankenstein (2025) (United States, 2025)

Most directors have their obsessions and many of them, when realized, disappoint on one level or another, oftentimes because the filmmaker lacks distance. They have crafted the movie so lovingly in their minds over the years—visualizing every shadow and line of dialogue—that the physical product simply can't match the imaginary one. To a degree, that's the problem with Frankenstein, Guillermo del Toro's re-interpretation of Mary Shelley's classic. To his credit, the director finds a new take on the old story, but the question is whether it's sufficiently new to warrant this sumptuous, overlong production.

I'd wager that almost everyone experiencing Frankenstein will know the basics of the story, whether from watching the James Whale version with Boris Karloff in the iconic flat-top makeup, the Hammer iteration (with Christopher Lee), the over-the-top operatic Kenneth Branagh one (with De Niro as the creature), or any of the countless others. Keeping this in mind, is there enough in the del Toro reinvention to hold the viewer's attention? To an extent, yes, but only barely. The filmmaker has changed enough minor plot points and re-imagined characters in ways that tweak expectations to a degree.

Most Frankensteins focus on Mary Shelley's theme of what happens when man plays God. That's on del Toro's agenda, as well, but it's not at his creative centerpiece. Del Toro, ever the champion of the "other," clearly wants us to see the world through the creature's pained eyes. This is more about the monster's humanity than the creator's hubris. He achieves this by explicitly switching the point of view about 2/3 of the way through the story (something Shelley also did in the novel). After following the trials and tribulations of Baron Victor Frankenstein (Oscar Isaac) to achieve his goal of creating life, it flips to telling the tale from the perspective of the Frankenstein creation (Jacob Elordi). This adds nuance to a hoary narrative. (The same cannot be said for Victor's "origin story," which feels both tacked-on and unnecessary, with all apologies to the great Charles Dance, who plays Frankenstein's emotionally distant father.)

The frustrating thing, however, is that at 2 1/2 hours, Frankenstein is the wrong length. A better version would have been either longer (in part to flesh out the poorly-realized storyline surrounding Elizabeth, played by Mia Goth) or shorter (eliding subplots that basically go nowhere). There are times when the movie tends to drag. Although I appreciate del Toro's attempts to provide pseudo-medical/scientific explanations for Victor's experiments, they are overkill, the film's equivalent of the old Star Trek phrase "technobabble." There's a reason why Mary Shelley never attempted to explain how the creature came into being. Jurassic Park found the perfect balance when it comes to making the unattainable seem feasible: less is more—just enough to tease believability without providing a lengthy essay.

An argument can be made that this is the least faithful major adaptation of the source material to have reached the screen. Only the bare-bones story remains—that of an obsessed scientist violating the laws of nature and God to create life, then being haunted by the consequences of those rash actions for the rest of his life. Many of the details are either completely new or largely re-formed. The arctic sequences, typically ignored by most adaptations (excepting the Branagh one), are from Shelley's novel, as are the scenes featuring the blind man (David Bradley) who befriends the creature. But in this telling, Elizabeth is the fiancee not of Victor but of his younger brother, William (Felix Kammerer). The baron is funded by arms manufacturer Henrich Harlander (Christoph Waltz), who feeds his ego and provides him with tools. There is no Henry Clerval or Professor Waldman. There is no Justine. And the creature has been transformed into a superhero-like figure who is possessed of super-strength and immortality.

The production details impress. Even at his least effective, del Toro has always been excellent with atmospherics. The gothic elements are decidedly effective. The creature design is adequate, not attempting to call to mind the Karloff version while maintaining its inhuman appearance. Some of the CGI is a little dodgy, but the director always seems to be at his best when working with practical effects as opposed to those developed on computers, and that holds true here as well.

Jacob Elordi's performance is notable, but it's hard to imagine this going down in history as one of the great interpretations of the classic monster. The movie itself is more of a curiosity than a necessity. Its metaphorical meditations on narcissism and discrimination are not new, and they don't resonate as deeply as they might once have done. Shelley's novel was more of a tragedy that found sympathy for both creator and creation. Del Toro's film sides distinctly with the latter, and Oscar Isaac's portrayal makes Victor a figure who is both unpleasant and unlikeable, driven by a selfishness that blinds him to greater concerns.

In the end, Frankenstein is like Hamlet or A Christmas Carol: there always seems to be a new rendering and, although directors bend over backwards trying to wring something unique out of the material, it's really just a question of whether audiences want to watch yet another interpretation of the same essential story. As good as Frankenstein (the novel) is, there's a sense of overexposure that accompanies each revision. Del Toro's filmmaking instincts are solid and he makes this an engaging 150-minute journey, but when it was over, I never felt I had truly explored something fresh, and that was a mild disappointment.

Frankenstein (2025) (United States, 2025)