Frankenstein (2025) – Review

As arguably one of the most filmed stories in existence, it would have to take something truly remarkable to make yet another adaption of Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein something that’s worth anticipating. Enter Guillermo Del Toro, who’s been itching to stitch together his own version since first reading the story as a child; and backing him up is the predictably deep pockets of Netflix to assemble an appropriately lush vision. But despite the genuinely mouth watering prospect of Del Toro achieving one of his dream projects (HP Lovecraft’s In The Mountains Of Madness still frustratingly remains very much in the wind), is there actually room for yet another cinematic swing at the obsessive actions of Victor Frankenstein, or can the director of The Shape Of Water turn in yet another sympathetic version of a classic monster that puts the “pro” in The Modern Prometheus? Time to throw that switch one more time, Vic.

An expedition to reach the North Pole discovers that there’s greater dangers to fear than frost bite when the ship gets stuck in the ice leading the crew to stumble into a vicious feud that’s been raging in the snow. Alerted by a sudden explosion, the men find a wounded man fleeing from some screaming creature that, as some of the ragdolled crew discover, is terrifyingly strong and demonstrably pissed off. But after fending it off, the half-dead stranger claims that if the captain wants to see his crew unharmed, he should be taken back onto the ice and left yo the mercy of this howling beast. The man is Victor Frankenstein, as as his strength wanes, he tells the captain his spectacular story of horror, woe and the type of egotism that could swallow a moon.
After a strict childhood and a dead mother that forged his will to iron, Victor has declared himself the challenge to end all challenges – to end death once and for all, but as manic as this all sounds, the scary thing is that he’s actually pretty damn close. However, a breakthrough occurs when wealthy arms merchant Henrich Harlander offers him unlimited funds to continue his grisly passion project. Also entering his life at this junction is Harlander’s niece, Elizabeth, who is engaged to wed Victor’s younger and far more stable brother, William, and as the increasingly arrogant Frankenstein realises his God defying dream, his feelings for his future sister-in-law grows.
As like many other adaptations before us, Victor assembles his patchwork man and does indeed grant him life, but grows bored of his creation and soon becomes abusive to it when it appears to be something of a simpleton. But while tragedy after tragedy unfurls as Victor tells his story in the Arctic, there’s a major part of the story missing and after Frankenstein’s monster finally forces his way onto the ship, it’s time for the now-eloquent creature to get a few things off of his scarred chest…

Much like Robert Eggers remaking Nosferatu, I don’t think there is another filmmaker alive that could have gotten me excited for yet another go as Shelly’s timely masterpiece other than Del Toro. His eye for finding beauty in the most grisly of circumstances and his long held affinity for monsters makes him practically the perfect man to zap life into a story that’s seen everyone from James Whale, to Kenneth Branagh to even Mel Brooks throw the directorial switch with varied results. In fact, I don’t think that there’s been a movie made in recent times that – on paper – is in more capable hands; however the real mountain that this Frankenstien has to scale isn’t whether it’s director can gel with the material (are you kidding me?), but whether the material is just too familiar to provide any real surprises anymore.
For better or worse, Del Toro’s Frankenstein is pretty much what you’d hope/expect it to be. The filmmaking is achingly sumptuous, the sets and costumes are loaded with detail just as the movie is overflowing with love for the story as only del Toro could offer, but anyone more than a little bit familiar with the source material will find themselves more than a little overcome with deja vu. On the other hand, when deja vu is as gorgeous as this, it’s genuinely tough to complain, especially as the director is predictably way more involved with making Jacob Elordi’s creature the tragic lead rather than a vengeful villain. In fact, with this and the former, Gillman-esque glories of The Shape Of Water, there’s the amusing feeling that del Toro won’t rest until he’s made all of the Universal Monsters fuckable – but hey, everyone needs goals I guess.

However, the main difference here isn’t so much that the monster more, vast amounts of empathy than he’s ever received before, rather that the script goes all in to make Victor Frankenstein way more of a villainous shit than he’s ever been before. While other versions painted the driven surgeon as succumbing to mania as obsession and fever drove him to achieve his task, there’s no such excuse for Oscar Issac’s attempt who proves just as handy trimming the ham as he is sawing through a leg. Now he’s a ego-driven prick who is cursed to make the same mistakes as his own stern, abusive father as he beats and insults a creation that isn’t instantly perfect the second he’s “born”.
However, del Toro is dead set to give the Monster his due and amusingly even makes the fact that both Victor and his creation both have stories to tell by splitting the film into two halves as each get to have their say like the captain of the North Pole expedition is a late 18th century Dr. Phil. Unsurprisingly, it’s here where the director really tugs on those heartstrings and its fascinating to watch him deviate from the sacred texts in order to make one of horrordom’s most famous monsters a gorgeous heartbreaking creature of pity. Note how Mia Goth’s Elizabeth is drawn to him rather than repulsed and how you never once lose empathy for him, even when he’s casually ripping off a man’s jaw or yanking off a wolf’s skin like he’s stripping a pillowcase. In fact, Jacob Elordi’s performance rightfully should go down as one of the all-time great portrayals that not only allows us to look upon a classic creation with new eyes, but also flatly points out everything wrong with Robert De Niro’s version in a single performance.
Yes, there’s nothing intrinsically new in del Toro’s telling that you haven’t seen before, but that doesn’t mean that the director’s approach does keep the body of the story nice and fresh. The Monster’s a tormented hottie that’ll no doubt draw gothic yearnings from those bored of Team Edward, Issac chews the gorgeous scenery with frenzied abandon and del Toro packs the film with that balance of empathy and the beautifully grotesque that’s made his name for years (anyone thinking he’s gone soft since winning an Oscar will be delighted by a jump scare delivered by a particularly Clive Barker-esque corpse).

The best version ever? Well, considering the history of Frankenstein and his creation, that’s something of an impossible question. But it’s certainly the most complete adaption by a country mile, and while Victor certainly manages to best death, del Toro mostly manages to overcome a creeping sense of over-familiarity by stitching together an undeniably breathtaking adaption.
It’s just a pity it’s on bloody Netflix.
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