For director Guillermo del Toro, Frankenstein isn’t just another film. It is the culmination of a journey that has defined his existence and his art. It’s an obsession he has cultivated for over half a century, a story whose threads are woven into the DNA of every one of his previous works. “I have given it over 50 years of my life,” the filmmaker affirmed, underscoring the deep personal connection that binds him to Mary Shelley’s myth. This devotion is no exaggeration. Del Toro maintains that elements of this foundational narrative are present in all 13 of his films, citing his acclaimed Pinocchio as the story of “another prodigal father asking for forgiveness of his child,” a direct echo of the tragic bond between Victor Frankenstein and his creation.
The director’s fascination began in childhood, a formative encounter at age seven with the iconic 1931 James Whale film starring Boris Karloff. This first visual impact was consolidated and deepened at age eleven, when he read the original 1818 novel. Since then, the Creature has become an almost totemic figure in his personal pantheon, a being he considers almost a deity, a messianic figure whose shadow looms over his entire life and work. This symbiotic relationship between the artist and the monster transcends the merely cinematic to become autobiographical. Del Toro has spoken of his own childhood in Guadalajara, Mexico, describing himself as a “strange, pale creature that liked to read,” a hypochondriac child who, at seven, studied medical manuals convinced he had terminal illnesses. In classic monsters like Karloff’s, Godzilla, or the Creature from the Black Lagoon, he found a validation the conventional world denied him. “Monsters tell you, look, it’s okay to be you. It’s okay to be imperfect,” he explains. Each of his films, populated by fauns, amphibian men, or wooden puppets, has been an exploration of this acceptance of imperfection, but Frankenstein represents the purest and most direct expression of this central theme of his life.
The materialization of this obsession has not been limited to the intellectual or cinematic plane; it has taken a physical, tangible form. In his celebrated “Bleak House,” a personal sanctuary dedicated to his art and inspirations, del Toro has a room consecrated exclusively to Frankenstein, which he calls “the living room.” In this space, surrounded by figures and paraphernalia from the myth, he writes, researches, and designs. This creative process, in which a creator isolates himself to give material form to an idea that consumes him, astonishingly mirrors the novel’s own narrative. The film, therefore, is not just the result of an artistic process but a thematic echo of the story it tells: that of a solitary creator bringing to life the fixation that has dominated his mind for decades.
The Philosophical Vision – Reinterpreting the Myth of the “Modern Prometheus”
Guillermo del Toro’s approach to Mary Shelley’s work deliberately moves away from horror conventions to enter the realm of existential tragedy. For him, the novel is a work of profound philosophical complexity, “closer to John Milton’s Paradise Lost” than a simple scary story. He describes it as a “poignant examination of what makes us human and the pain of being alive,” an exploration of the fundamental questions that have plagued humanity forever. The central idea of “being born into a world and an existence that you didn’t ask for” resonates with him on a deeply personal level, connecting with the spirit of the author herself, whom he describes as a “teenager full of questions, rage, and rebellion” whose concerns are still our own.
His attraction to the story is rooted in the 19th-century Romantic movement, a period he admires for its “existential sense of beauty in horror.” Del Toro coins his own definition for this sensibility, calling it “graveyard poetry,” a phrase that encapsulates the union of the macabre and the lyrical, the beauty found in melancholy and tragedy. This approach inverts the genre’s traditional formula. He doesn’t use beauty to make horror tolerable; instead, he finds an intrinsic beauty within the horror itself. The film, therefore, uses its gothic framework not primarily to frighten, but to induce a state of sublime melancholy, inviting the viewer to contemplate the beauty in imperfection, pain, and existential loneliness. This feeling is reinforced by the score from composer Alexandre Desplat, who sought to articulate the “beautiful emotions” of the Creature, even scoring the macabre creation scene as a “waltz,” capturing Victor’s “creative trance” rather than the horror of the act.
This philosophical vision also informs his concept of adapting a literary work to film. Del Toro seeks not a literal fidelity, but a thematic one—a transmutation of the novel’s spirit into the language of cinema. He uses two powerful metaphors to describe this process: adapting is like “marrying a widow,” and it’s like a “fish that needs to adapt to land; […] it has to grow lungs.” Both images suggest that the original work must be respected in its essence but requires a fundamental transformation to survive and thrive in a completely different medium. This philosophy justifies the narrative innovations he introduces, such as expanding the relationship between creator and creation. These changes are not betrayals of the text, but the “lungs” necessary for Shelley’s central themes to “breathe” on screen. The film, therefore, presents itself not as a transcription of the book, but as an embodiment of its deepest ideas, filtered through the unique sensibility of its director.
The Heart of the Film – The Tragedy of a Father and a Son
Guillermo del Toro’s most significant and personal narrative innovation is refocusing the relationship between Victor Frankenstein and his creation, transforming it into the fractured dynamic between a cold father and a sensitive son. While in Mary Shelley’s novel Victor flees in horror almost immediately after the Creature opens his eyes, the film introduces a crucial deviation. It adds “an entire childhood relationship… that starts quite beautiful and breaks apart,” establishing an initial bond that makes the subsequent abandonment even more devastating. This decision shifts the core conflict from scientific hubris to paternal failure, turning the story into a family drama of epic, gothic proportions.
Del Toro underscores that this theme has deep roots in his own cultural heritage. “In Latin Catholic culture, this is very heavy,” he explains. “For me, it’s very much about father-and-son stories. To say ‘in the name of the father’ is the birth of everything in a Latin household.” This perspective permeates the entire film, exploring themes of responsibility, shame, and the desperate need for recognition. Oscar Isaac, who plays Victor, recalls speaking extensively with the director about “the way that you can treat kids as an extension of yourself, as something to be prideful about or ashamed of.” Victor’s sin, in this version, is not simply playing God, but a fundamental failure as a father. His motivation for the creation is deeply rooted in his own family trauma: a resentment toward his strict father, Leopold (played by Charles Dance), who openly favored his younger brother, William. Victor creates not for the advancement of science, but to validate his own wounded ego, to “prove his brilliance.” The Creature, in its conception, is an act of narcissism, a trophy meant to demonstrate his worth. His subsequent rejection is not just horror at the monstrous, but the shame of a father whose “son” fails to meet his expectations of perfection.
From the Creature’s perspective, this relationship is the entirety of his existence. Jacob Elordi, the actor who brings him to life, summarizes it poignantly: “It’s impossible for the Creature to exist without his father to me, which is also me with my dad. That’s all of us with our fathers.” The film reinforces this connection explicitly: the only word the Creature initially pronounces is “Victor,” a constant call to his creator, his god, his father. Monstrosity, in this interpretation, is not an innate quality of the Creature but the direct consequence of paternal abandonment. He is born with an “innocence and an openness and a purity in his eyes that was completely disarming.” It is the rejection and cruelty of the world, beginning with his own creator, that molds him. His journey is one of “self-discovery” in which he develops a conscience and, paradoxically, becomes “more human than Victor himself.” His fundamental yearning is simple: “love and acceptance.” The violence and vengeance he unleashes are the desperate cries of an abandoned son. In this way, del Toro shifts the source of monstrosity from physical appearance to the moral act of abandonment—a universal theme that resonates far beyond the confines of the horror genre.
Anatomy of the Protagonists
At the center of this emotional and philosophical storm are two complex figures, embodied by actors who were, in the director’s mind, the only choices for their respective roles. The design, performance, and conception of Victor Frankenstein and his Creature reveal the film’s deepest layers.
Victor Frankenstein (Oscar Isaac): The Artist as a Rebel God
Oscar Isaac, Guillermo del Toro’s “only choice” for the lead role, brings to life a Victor Frankenstein who is much more than a mad scientist. His portrayal defines him as a “brilliant and pompous scientist,” an “selfish” man whose ambition to conquer death and achieve immortality consumes him. Yet, beneath this surface of academic arrogance, Isaac and del Toro build a character who is, in essence, a “misunderstood artist.” His laboratory is not a simple workspace but a “stage” where he can perform his genius. He is driven by a “punk rock energy,” a desire to “provoke” the establishment that has rejected him.
This archetype of the romantic, rebellious artist is fueled by deep personal trauma. The death of his mother, Claire, while giving birth to his brother William, becomes the catalyst for his obsession to “conquer death.” His ambition is constantly fed by resentment toward an authoritarian father, Leopold, and envy of a brother who was always the family’s “golden boy.” Isaac’s Victor is not, therefore, a cold, calculating scientist. He is a passionate, egocentric, and emotionally driven figure who sees his creation not just as a scientific breakthrough, but as a definitive work of art—a declaration of his own existence against a world that never valued him. In his rebellion, he aligns with the spirit of Mary Shelley herself, the young woman who channeled her own “rage and rebellion” into the creation of an eternal myth.
The Creature (Jacob Elordi): The Tragic “Son of Man”
To shape his Creature, Guillermo del Toro moved away from traditional depictions of a patchwork of decaying corpses. Instead, he sought an aesthetic that was both unsettling and beautiful. The visual design is based directly on the influential illustrations that artist Bernie Wrightson, a close friend of the director, created for a 1983 edition of the novel. Del Toro wanted the Creature to look “like something newly minted,” a new and pure life form, “not like a repair job in an ICU.” The result is described as a “clean medical specimen come to life, a milky-white model of man with defined musculature and anatomical perfection,” marked only by the sutures that betray his artificial origin.
This body becomes a canvas for a profound theological statement. The Creature’s appearance is loaded with “Catholic imagery,” conceived as the embodiment of the “Hijo del Hombre,” the biblical Son of Man. His creation is a “reverse crucifixion,” and his body bears the stigmata of a martyr: a “symbolic crown of thorns” and a “weeping wound in his side like Jesus’ spear wound.” By presenting him not as a mistake of nature, but as an anatomically perfect and pure being who is corrupted by the world, del Toro elevates him from monster to a secular Christ figure. He is a “son” sent by a “father” (Victor) into a world that misunderstands him and crucifies him for his otherness. His tragedy is not his supposed ugliness, but his innocence in a fallen world.
Jacob Elordi, who endured up to 10 hours daily in the makeup chair for his transformation, was chosen precisely for the “innocence and openness” his eyes conveyed. Del Toro was explicit in his desire for the monster to be “beautiful” and to have an “attractiveness” and “sensuality.” This decision subverts the premise that the monster is inherently repulsive. By making him physically attractive despite the sutures, the film forces the audience to confront the origin of prejudice. If the Creature is not objectively ugly, then the horror he inspires must come from a deeper place: the fear of the unnatural, of the different. “Monstrosity” ceases to be an aesthetic concept and becomes a purely social and psychological construct.
The World of Frankenstein – An Ecosystem of Characters
To amplify the central themes of ambition, creation, and responsibility, the film surrounds Victor and his Creature with a rich ecosystem of supporting characters. Each functions as a mirror or a catalyst for the protagonists’ conflicts, weaving a dense and complex narrative tapestry.
The role of Elizabeth, played by Mia Goth, is particularly crucial and multifaceted. Goth takes on a dual role: she is not only Elizabeth, the fiancée of Victor’s brother, William, but also Claire Frankenstein, Victor’s mother, who died in childbirth. As Elizabeth, she finds herself caught in a “complicated love triangle,” showing a compassion for the Creature that contrasts with the horror of others and places her in the middle of the brutal battle between creator and creation. By casting the same actress to play the lost mother and the love interest, the narrative establishes a potent psychological subtext. Victor’s obsession with “conquering death” becomes intertwined with an almost Oedipal desire to reclaim the maternal figure, projecting this longing onto his brother’s fiancée.
The supporting cast is populated by high-caliber actors who give weight and texture to Victor’s world. Christoph Waltz plays an enigmatic figure, identified as Dr. Pretorius in some sources and Harlander in others, an “arms merchant” who finances Victor’s experiments, adding a “touch of levity to the bittersweet proceedings.” Charles Dance embodies Leopold Frankenstein, Victor’s “imposing and imperious” father, whose strict and disapproving figure is one of the driving forces behind his son’s ambition. Felix Kammerer, known for his role in All Quiet on the Western Front, plays William Frankenstein, the younger, “golden boy” brother whose existence fuels Victor’s inferiority complex. The cast is rounded out by key figures from the novel, such as Captain Anderson (played by Lars Mikkelsen), a reimagining of Captain Walton who finds Victor in the Arctic, and the Blind Man (David Bradley), who offers the Creature a brief moment of acceptance and kindness.
The Art of Creation – The Craftsmanship of the Gothic World
Guillermo del Toro’s cinematic philosophy is built on a deep reverence for craftsmanship and practical effects—a belief in the tangibility of the world he creates on screen. For Frankenstein, this philosophy was taken to its fullest expression. “I don’t want digital, I don’t want AI, I don’t want simulation,” the director emphatically declared, making it clear that material authenticity was paramount. A large part of the film’s budget was invested in building practical, large-scale sets, including a complete laboratory and a life-sized ship, to give every scenario a palpable, lived-in feel.
This commitment to craftsmanship is evident in the work of his team of regular collaborators, a group of artists who understand and execute his vision with exceptional synergy. Production designer Tamara Deverell, who took research trips through Scotland with del Toro, was the architect of this gothic world. Her masterpiece is Victor’s lab, a massive set built in Toronto, perched atop an old Scottish stone tower, filled with ornate apparatus and dominated by a gigantic round window. Cinematographer Dan Laustsen, another key collaborator, sculpted this world with light and shadow. True to his style, he employed single-source lighting, often from windows, fluid crane-assisted camera movements, and a preference for wide angles with deep shadows. “We are not afraid of the dark,” states Laustsen, who took this maxim to the extreme by lighting numerous scenes solely with flickering candlelight, creating an atmosphere of pictorial and oppressive beauty.
The interdependence between the artistic departments was fundamental to achieving a cohesive vision. Costume designer Kate Hawley, for example, not only created garments that reflected the characters’ psychology through symbolic colors like intense reds and greens, but also had to work in close collaboration with Laustsen. A sumptuous blue dress designed for Mia Goth took four months to perfect, not because of its complexity, but because it required exhaustive experimentation to ensure the color registered correctly under the cinematographer’s specific, atmospheric lighting. Likewise, Alexandre Desplat’s score is not mere accompaniment but an integral part of the narrative. Considering this film as the conclusion of a thematic triptych alongside The Shape of Water and Pinocchio, Desplat composed a lyrical and emotional score that gives voice to the characters’ “unspoken yearnings,” using a large orchestra and the pure lines of a solo violin to express the Creature’s deepest emotions. This team is complemented by the work of editor Evan Schiff, who collaborates on the rhythm and structure of the visual narrative.
This method of production, where each artisanal element depends on the others for the whole to come alive, functions as a powerful meta-statement on the film’s central theme. The filmmaking itself becomes a Frankensteinian art: each department is a “part” that must be precisely sutured to the others for the “body” of the film to rise from the operating table as an organic, functional whole. Form and content become inseparable.
The Eternal Echo of Creation and Ruin
Guillermo del Toro’s Frankenstein stands not as just another adaptation of a canonical text, but as a profoundly personal work, a distillation of the themes that have obsessed the filmmaker throughout his entire career. By framing Mary Shelley’s gothic narrative through the lens of a universal family drama, the film explores the eternal questions of human nature, a creator’s responsibility, and the search for identity in a world that rejects us. The official synopsis describes the story as a “monstrous experiment that ultimately leads to the undoing of both the creator and his tragic creation,” an inevitable trajectory of ambition and consequence.
Through meticulous visual craftsmanship, nuanced performances, and a brave reinterpretation of its central characters, the film promises to be an epic and melancholic exploration of loneliness and connection. It is the story of an selfish scientist who learns the terrifying lesson that only monsters play God, and that of a tragic creation who, in his journey of self-discovery, may just become more human than the man who gave him life.
This monumental exploration of ambition, loneliness, and the complex dance between a father and his son—a story that has obsessed its director for half a century—premieres on Netflix on November 7.
