Guillermo del Toro’s Frankenstein arrives at a cultural moment when audiences are saturated with remakes, reboots, and revisionist retellings. Yet from the moment the film premiered in select theatres on 17 October 2025, followed by a worldwide Netflix release on 7 November 2025, it became clear that this was not another entry in the long lineage of familiar monster cinema. Instead, del Toro’s version reaches back to the interior, emotional, and philosophical core of Mary Shelley’s novel, restoring its tragic depth with an operatic intensity that critics around the world have described as both “devastating” and “formally radical.” As it began streaming globally on Netflix, the conversation only grew louder, setting Frankenstein apart as one of the most ambitious reinterpretations of the tale in decades.
What distinguishes this adaptation immediately is its narrative architecture. True to Shelley’s storytelling structure, del Toro organizes the film into three distinct chapters — “Prelude,” “Victor’s Tale,” and “The Creature’s Tale.” This triptych design allows the film to move through shifting emotional and moral landscapes, first framing the story from the outside before spiraling inward into the obsessive psyche of Victor Frankenstein and then into the bruised, searching soul of the Creature. The approach not only honors the novel’s layered storytelling but also gives the film its rich, almost symphonic rhythm. The narrative settles not on spectacle but on sorrow; not on gothic fright, but on existential dread. The Creature is not a monster but a mirror — one reflecting abandonment, longing, and the human cost of unchecked ambition. The result is a version of Frankenstein that feels intimately connected to Shelley’s themes, yet unmistakably shaped by del Toro’s gothic-humanist vision.
Critics have responded strongly to this blend of aesthetic beauty and emotional brutality. In Variety, Richard Kuipers calls the film a “stirring drama of conscience,” emphasizing how del Toro fuses the intimate tragedy of a broken family with sweeping, frostbitten landscapes and political undercurrents. Kuipers notes the film’s claustrophobic tension, especially in the middle chapter where Victor’s descent into obsession is intercut with the Creature’s slow awakening. He observes that the director’s fascination with physical fragility and spiritual yearning gives the film a weight that previous adaptations rarely attempted. While Kuipers acknowledges a slight tonal wobble in the final act — where patriotic and mythic flourishes briefly nudge the film toward melodrama — he ultimately concludes that its emotional force remains intact.
The Hollywood Reporter echoes this sentiment, with reviewer David Rooney praising the film’s “towering emotional clarity.” He singles out the Creature’s arc as the film’s heartbeat, describing it as “almost unbearably tender,” particularly in scenes where the Creature grapples with language, memory, and selfhood. Rooney argues that by shifting the moral center toward the Creature, del Toro reframes the familiar narrative: this is not a story of a scientist haunted by his creation, but of a creation abandoned by his maker. That shift, he writes, is what makes this adaptation resonate so profoundly with contemporary audiences.
In IndieWire, Kate Erbland highlights the film’s craftsmanship, calling it “the most visually poetic Frankenstein ever made.” She points to its use of natural light, long silences, and intricate production design — elements she says elevate the film from gothic horror to “tragic romantic opera.” Erbland also notes Andrew Garfield’s performance as Victor Frankenstein, describing it as “a staggering portrait of brilliance poisoned by loneliness.” Her review focuses on how the film confronts moral responsibility, refusing to soften Victor’s culpability or the Creature’s suffering. According to Erbland, this is what makes del Toro’s adaptation “emotionally ferocious” in a way few versions have dared to be.
Deadline adds another dimension, emphasizing the film’s historical and literary rigor. Reviewer Damon Wise states that del Toro not only celebrates Shelley’s philosophical core but uses the Creature’s journey as a metaphor for social exclusion, scientific exploitation, and the trauma of being seen yet unseen. Wise argues that the film is more politically alive than previous adaptations — not in a simplistic or didactic way, but through its careful interrogation of who is considered human and who is allowed to belong.
Across British media, praise has been equally enthusiastic. The Guardian applauds the film’s “aching restraint,” noting that del Toro resists the usual temptation to turn the Creature into a spectacle. Instead, critic Peter Bradshaw observes how the film privileges the Creature’s voice, gaze, and lived experience, culminating in a finale that feels “quietly catastrophic.” Empire calls it “a masterpiece of emotional engineering,” while Total Film describes it as “the definitive modern Frankenstein — mythic, mournful, and magnificently acted.”
With the film now streaming on Netflix, audience reactions have been just as intense. Viewers on social platforms describe it as “heart-crushing,” “unexpectedly beautiful,” and “the first Frankenstein that made me cry.” Many have responded strongly to Jacob Elordi’s performance as the Creature, noting how he brings vulnerability, rage, and innocence into a single, wounded presence. Others point to the film’s slow-burn pacing, appreciating how it avoids jump scares in favor of mood, atmosphere, and emotional excavation. The reception on Rotten Tomatoes reflects this divide: while critics maintain a strong positive majority, some viewers find the pacing challenging. Still, the overall impression is that Frankenstein connects deeply with audiences seeking meaning rather than monsters, emotion rather than spectacle.
Behind the emotional power of the film lies a formidable cast and crew who shape its world with precision. Andrew Garfield embodies Victor Frankenstein with simmering desperation, portraying a man torn between scientific discovery and profound emotional emptiness. Jacob Elordi delivers what many critics call the performance of his career as the Creature — a portrayal marked by physical intensity, aching vulnerability, and an almost Shakespearean sorrow. Oscar Isaac completes the trio with a quieter but equally potent role that adds narrative weight and moral texture. Behind the camera, del Toro collaborates with some of his most trusted artists: Dan Laustsen’s cinematography renders icy mountains, candlelit rooms, and desolate interiors with painterly depth; the production design builds a world that feels historical yet dreamlike; and the music, composed with careful restraint, supports the film’s emotional architecture without overwhelming it. Together, these elements create what many critics describe as one of del Toro’s most haunting cinematic achievements.
In the end, what sets Frankenstein apart is neither its fidelity to Mary Shelley nor its reinvention of gothic cinema, but its ability to treat the Creature not as a monster, but as a tragedy. It is a film about abandonment, longing, creation, and consequence — a story that asks who we become when the one who made us refuses to love us. In a year crowded with large-scale spectacles and franchise sequels, del Toro’s Frankenstein stands alone as a film of bruising emotional honesty. It is not just another retelling — it is a reckoning, a lament, and a masterwork of cinematic empathy.
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