Guillermo del Toro’s “Frankenstein” has been a passion project nearly thirty years in the making. It’s a story that should fit del Toro’s style and storytelling perfectly; a gothic tragedy about the hubris of mankind, a creature looking for companionship, and the repercussions of creation. It should be one of the best films of the year, as well as one of the best films in Del Toro’s oeuvre. Unfortunately, while it’s beautiful to look at, the film often feels lifeless and unoriginal, relying too heavily on Mary Shelley’s novel, yet failing to capture what makes it so special. The film isn’t a complete misfire however, del Toro gestures at interesting ideas and Jacob Elordi’s performance as the Monster is extraordinary. Ultimately, it’s an occasionally interesting movie bogged down by frustrating storytelling.  

The film opens in the desolation of the Arctic. A ship, stuck in the ice, finds a man gravely wounded: The scientist, Victor Frankenstein (Oscar Isaac). They take him back to his boat where he warns them of a monster fast approaching. When the Monster does arrive, he decimates the crew, killing several of them. The scene is filmed using long takes, showing the sheer unstoppable nature of the monster. People are hurled against ships and stabbed in the stomach; their bodies snapped in two. The camera lingers on the Monster’s victims, showcasing his might and savagery. It’s an astounding opening, introducing our central characters’ conflict, and enticing the audience to see what comes next.   

The pacing begins to slow dramatically as Victor begins to regale the captain with his tale of how he arrived there. He begins with his childhood, and for the next forty-five minutes Victor describes how he came to create the monster. It’s an interesting storytelling mode, yet feels indulgent on del Toro’s part. This could’ve easily been a scene or two, but when heightened to an extended sequence where nothing directly impacts the plot, it feels unnecessary. The novel also has Victor explain his childhood, but the book is so consistently well-paced it fits within the rhythms it develops. This sequence in the film trudges along, slowly and deliberately setting up why Victor wanted to create life. The sequence isn’t without interesting ideas, however. As a child, Victor’s mother died during childbirth. Victor seems wracked with guilt; a small boy, unable to save his loved one. From here it is insinuated that he is fascinated with the idea of controlling life so he can rectify his loss. 

Victor develops an obsession over his mother, falling in-love with Elizabeth (Mia Goth), a woman that looks startlingly like her (Goth also plays Victor’s mother, Claire). Victor’s drink of choice is milk, signifying the childlike state he’s stuck in, unable to move on from what he deems his failure. This is a fascinating idea in concept, and a deeply interesting departure from the novel, but ultimately, beyond these scenes, it’s never explored again. This is the fundamental issue with this adaptation; del Toro paws at new ways to subvert the material but instead opts to discard his ideas and stick closely to the source material. It happens again in the opening, with del Toro seemingly telling a story of fathers and sons with Victor and his father (Charles Dance), and his father’s abusive treatment towards him. This will later be mirrored in the relationship between Victor and the Monster, but beyond the visual parallel it is never really explored. It feels like del Toro’s reverence for the novel gets in the way of him delving into something interesting. It’s a shame because his “Pinocchio” feels so vibrant and unique, changing the structure of the story to create a tale of rebelling against fascism.   

Eventually, Victor meets Heinrich (Christoph Waltz) who agrees to finance his pursuits. He gives Victor a castle, and Victor gets to work, eventually creating the Monster. This is where the story begins to show off its visual majesty. Practically built sets tower over the actors; period-accurate clothing is adorned by all; the lighting and cinematography are vibrant and visually spectacular. Visually the film feels distinctly beautiful in a cinematic landscape obsessed with gritty realism. Here, del Toro’s visual storytelling is unmatched; and, for a brief moment, his passion for Shelley’s novel shines through. It’s especially a treat on the big screen, a rare occurrence because the film was made for Netflix, who hosted a limited theatrical run of the film.  

This has become a common occurrence with Netflix; giving their films the minimum amount of time in theaters to qualify for Oscar contention, before snatching them out for streaming releases. Netflix has done this for years now, consistently refusing to change their theatrical release strategy. This business model is actively harming movie theaters, taking away revenue theaters desperately need. This also prevents movies from being seen as they’re intended: On the big screen. Frequently, these films are displayed for a matter of weeks before being dumped into Netflix’s endless catalogue. The great films will shine for a while, but almost all of their films are lost in the endless void of the Netflix algorithm. Netflix fundamentally doesn’t care about art, instead opting to do the bare minimum to get a golden statue. Denver’s Mayan theater sold out three nights in a row while showing “Frankenstein,” a sign that audiences are still hungry for the theatrical experience, even if streaming companies try to argue otherwise. The act of going to a communal space is still not diminished by the notion that you’ll be able to watch this film in two weeks on your phone. 

When the Monster, performed by Jacob Elordi, is born, the entire film begins to come alive. His performance here is extraordinarily moving, containing pathos missing from every other performance in the film. He’s curious about the world and delicate with those around him. This section of the film has no dialogue save for the word “Victor,” driving a deeply physical performance out of Elordi. Every facial expression is deliberate, the way he carries himself expresses how he’s feeling. It’s a performance that, with quiet simplicity, attaches the audience to this misunderstood character and engenders empathy with him. It’s a remarkable performance that contains a versatile range. What begins as delicate turns heartbroken and cold, and the audience understands why. This is essentially a child that has been cast aside by its parent, subjected to the cruelties of the world that turns his heart hardened and bitter. Elordi sells this transition perfectly, emphasizing how this person could become so dejected by the world. The sequence that follows him exploring the world is the best in the film, and it’s in no small part thanks to Elordi’s performance. The other performances in the film can’t hope to match up to this one. Mia Goth, one of the most versatile and interesting performers working today, is given no real role, instead cast as a one-note love interest with barely any screentime. It’s a shame because she is a terrific performer, but here she’s given no room to deliver a truly resonant performance. 

An interesting comparison to the film is Robert Egger’s “Nosferatu,” which was released last year, remaking the 1922 film. Eggers’ adaptation feels similar to del Toro’s; both are visual feasts, yet they differ because Eggers’ changes the source material, creating a gothic romance including the feminine perspective of Ellen (Lily-Rose Depp). It’s a massive change to the original and imbues it with new life, examining a part of the film and a character that had otherwise existed as a plot-device and nothing more. Del Toro’s adaptation ultimately suffers because he refuses to stray from the novel. When the Monster seeks revenge on Victor, he tracks him to Elizabeth’s wedding. Elizabeth and the Monster escape together, a huge departure from the book where the Monster ultimately kills her to hurt Victor. Elizabeth quickly dies however, succumbing to a gunshot wound. Once again, this change amounts to nothing because it leads to the same place as the novel. It’s deeply frustrating storytelling and ultimately hinders nearly every aspect of the film. 

At the conclusion of the film, as Victor and the Monster are drawn into their final confrontation, Victor apologizes after hearing the Monster’s tale. The two part amicably. It’s a moment that should carry weight and deep emotion but instead falls flat. The two have hardly existed in the same space, so it feels irrational for the viewer to see this moment as genuine catharsis and development as opposed to a cheaply tacked on happy ending. Victor hasn’t done anything to change over the course of the story; his apology therefore carries no weight or meaning. The original novel was so beautiful because of how it covered the existential battle Victor and the Monster underwent. The two experienced heavy trials and tribulations and by the end of the story had arrived fully changed as characters. It was a remarkable development that felt truly earned over the course of the story. Here, the development feels non-existent; a conclusion never fully formed. The passion is evident, but del Toro could, and should, have gone further. “Frankenstein” is fine; it should have been amazing.