Guillermo del Toro has spent his filmmaking career finding sympathy for monsters. His best-known stories balance compassion and edge. He won the Oscar for Best Picture for The Shape of Water, an aching if gory ballad of an aquatic creature falling in love with a human; his superhero movies focus on fringe characters such as Blade (half-man, half-vampire) and the demonic Hellboy, both outcasts operating in society’s shadows. It’s hardly a surprise, then, that he’s been trying to get an adaptation of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein off the ground for many years. The final result of that endeavor, now on Netflix, is a handsome, burnished production with gorgeous sets, colorful costumes, and the deep well of compassion that runs through all of del Toro’s work. So why does it feel so inert?
The answer may lie with del Toro himself. The director, it seems, is prone to becoming almost too enamored of his source material. Frankenstein is del Toro’s third take in a row on a classic novel, after his remake of Nightmare Alley and his Oscar-winning, stop-motion version of Pinocchio. I walked out of each dazzled by the design elements; in a cinematic era reliant on CGI-rendered locations and cheap technological embellishment, the director has a distinct commitment to practical effects. He refuses to skimp on the creativity of his art direction, no matter the scale of the project. For Frankenstein, Netflix handed him a massive budget to play with, and the money is all up on the big screen, if you can catch the movie on one. But just like del Toro’s previous reverent adaptations, all of that sumptuousness is hamstrung by his apparent desire to remain faithful to the original tale.
[Read: Why Guillermo del Toro made Frankenstein]
The film begins, as Shelley’s novel does, on a giant ship that’s trapped in the Arctic ice—one that is clearly a physical, colossal prop. When the hulking Creature (played by Jacob Elordi) shows up and starts throwing sailors around, the stunt work is stunningly tactile. Del Toro captures the action beautifully and always knows where to throw in a surprising spine crunch to prove to his audience that he’s not serving up a staid period piece. Despite the on-screen spectacle, however, I was soon fidgeting in my seat, waiting for the story’s pathos to catch up. Yet the cast members are never able to match the grandiosity of del Toro’s vision, drowned out by the wonderful sets around them.
Oscar Isaac plays Baron Victor Frankenstein—the man responsible for animating del Toro’s latest lovable monster—with as much Gothic panache as he can summon. His hair is lustrous and flowy, his brow eternally furrowed; he spits out every vaguely European-accented line, emphasizing the scientist’s arrogance. As the Creature, Elordi is tremendous. He uses his exaggerated physique to communicate otherworldliness, but his gaze is deep and childlike. Because the character can barely speak for most of the movie, Elordi’s eyes have to do the talking, and they do an impressive job of it. Watching him, I began to long for a simpler, leaner adaptation that truly puts Frankenstein’s monster front and center. Del Toro, like Shelley, changes up the protagonists; the film focuses on Frankenstein before switching in the second half to the Creature’s point of view. Although that shift works in the book—an epistolary novel written in the first person—here, it means there’s less time to develop either character’s perspective.
The audience likely already knows that Frankenstein’s controversial science experiment is doomed to fail: The Creature will come to life and then turn against his cruel master, seeking freedom and, eventually, revenge. Del Toro and Isaac can’t quite explain why Frankenstein becomes such a base villain, locking his life’s work in a dungeon and treating him like an animal. The viewer gets a taste of backstory in flashbacks to the doctor’s unforgiving father (Charles Dance) and the tragic death of his young mother (Mia Goth), but these scenes unfurl like stylish window dressing atop the foreboding world del Toro constructs. Frankenstein simply can’t understand his creation’s humanity—that’s the folly driving this narrative, no matter how slowly.
I was frustrated by del Toro’s inventiveness being largely limited to the film’s look. The director’s dedication to honoring Shelley’s writing, paired with Netflix’s huge investment, doesn’t allow for any additional experimentation. What could have been the kind of bittersweet monster movie del Toro has excelled at instead feels shackled by its opulence, trudging through a two-and-a-half-hour run time to arrive at its expected conclusion. His efforts to wash his movies in splendor are beautiful—even novel—but these innovations cannot always outweigh familiarities. Sometimes, they make them even more glaringly apparent.
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