Glazing Guillermo del Toro's FRANKENSTEIN

Jacob Elordi gives nothing short of a mesmerizing performance

*this review is spoiler free, though it mentions a lot about Frankenstein in all its forms* 

Sometimes a movie is good because it is innovative, either within narrative, craft or form, it functions in a way never before done. Sometimes the flowers a film receives come because it gives us some new perspective, maybe even falling into that award season trap of “importance,” causing the praise to then flow forth of necessity. Even further some films are good seemingly simply because they can’t help it, an occurrence usually thanks to some alchemy of both previous considerations, a mixture of theme, creator and function that proves too intoxicating, too “great,” to receive anything but the utmost respect. Within all of these, rather invented, designations, there are then even further those pictures which are great for some ethereal quality within their frames, one almost difficult to name or place. Films where the greatness arrives almost solely by virtue of the fact that it was something that feels like it has always, or at the very least needed to, exist. Revered Mexican auteur Guillermo del Toro’s newest film Frankenstein, while certainly a qualifier for excellence in craft, is one of those films that exists because, not unlike the Creature at its center, it must. Few films arrive with such a degree of inevitability, of almost destiny, and the fact that the movie discovers within this expectation any degree of greatness is remarkable. The picture is so completely del Toro, so fully awash with everything that has ever fascinated him, either formally or thematically, that this exact chemistry has already been one often parried by the film’s prosecution, claiming it is a burden of authorial significance too great to overcome. However, the opposite is true, and this obsession, this love, ultimately, becomes the film’s saving grace.

To understand the expectation, one does not need to delve too deeply into the filmography, or fairy tales, of Guillermo del Toro, to see why Frankenstein feels like a predestined endeavor. His films are rich with many diverse, if frequently gothic, hallmarks, drawing influence from a wide slate of sources encompassing comic books to the Catholic church, yet perhaps his most critical, and indeed criticized penchant, are his loud thematic musings. Never will an audience walk away from one of Guillermo’s films wondering what it might have been “about” and while this may seem like a detriment, overt thematic preaching in film is a line ever so delicately annihilated, the fact that so many of his films work is only further testament to his skill. While risking downplaying the skill of subtly, and in full acknowledgement of its necessity for so many other films, making a movie successful while still being loud and brash with your themes is in fact one contradiction that requires nothing short of expert control. Put bluntly, while it may seem like lazy writing to simply name a theme, as it so often is, there are ways for this technique to still yield an enriching experience. Fortunately, Guillermo del Toro is indeed a master of cinematic tone and craft, one of the simplest salves to thematic peaking (to borrow a term from music production) and as such Frankenstein, buoyed on the winds of its own inevitability, while certainly anything but subtle, is nothing short of enrapturing. While other filmmakers have handled this material, and didactic discourse in general, by electing for a style of equal volume, del Toro’s ever sturdy hand, assisted in no small way by an extraordinary turn from Jacob Elordi, steers the ship solidly through, into what feels for del Toro equal parts culmination and perhaps even evolution. 

The source material, that giant of literature, Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein is a novel long since absorbed into culture at large, certainly transformed, on occasion deformed, through its various adaptations, though ever presently looming over entire genres. The extent of the book's inspiration is such that the argument could be made that without Shelly’s book there would not be horror films as we know them, however, in the modern era there is likely no one more inspired directly by its various iterations than Guillermo del Toro. The Oscar winning filmmaker has long told the stories of, at a very young age, witnessing Boris Karloff’s interpretation of the character in James Whale’s 1931 film of the same name. When del Toro speaks of this moment he waxes almost euphoric in that brand of film discourse unique to him, eagerly telling his listeners about how the things he saw in Karloff’s empathetic portrayal proved so revealing it became for him a new religion. In James Whale’s monstrous, tragic, if still unfaithfully adapted, film, del Toro saw himself, an outcast rejected for nothing more than, as his Creature would eventually state so clearly, “being what [he] was.” Years later, at the still young age of 11, when Guillermo read Shelly’s masterpiece, expecting to find merely a film tie in, his love for Frankenstein, and certainly the monsters and outcasts of the world, deepened, calcifying into a world view that would define his life. 

Boris Karloff in James Whale's The Bride of Frankenstein

These themes, as well as the general imagery of the films and novel, would be the predominant colors for all the subsequent films of his career, never completely subtext per se, it is debatable del Toro believes in true subtext, but as further accents and elements to expand the work. In Pinocchio, the mania of creation James Whale so evocatively depicted in both of his Frankenstein films inspires the central crafting and birth of the living puppet, both in the horror of Geppato’s work and in the eventual innocence of the boy. In The Shape of Water, it is the creature, the “monster,” most deserving of our empathy. In Pan’s Labyrinth, though certainly something present in each of his films, the true monsters are those in power, often fascists, who seek domination over or control of others. In Frankenstein, these thematic obsessions and iconographic inspirations are at last approached head-on, yet if there is a miracle to be witnessed in this approach it is that the film does not buckle but rather excels in its wake. 

Like Shelly and Whale before him, del Toro has crafted something of a memoir out of this material framing himself as both the central characters, both creator and created, and in so doing finds a unique temperature between them, thus far unique in adaptations of the novel. His take on Frankenstein is largely faithful to Shelly’s text, at least in terms of general spirit, and when combined with his loud thematic musings, it makes sense that some have found the film lacking of unique perspective or anything further than a by-the-numbers proceeding for both del Toro and Frankenstein at large. However, it is in his carefully calibrated doctor, played in an already under-appreciated turn from Oscar Isaac, juxtaposed with the, as Guillermo has said in press himself, wide open eyes of Elordi’s creature, that a new kind of relationship is siphoned. A father/son dynamic certainly, yet perhaps, dare I say subtextually, one enraptured by what the world has made them, ultimately finding, in one deviation from Shelly’s text, not merely despair, but a reason for life. The Creature of Frankenstein is historically a tragic figure, yet in del Toro’s hands, perhaps simply due to his everlasting affection, the created, and perhaps the creator, are at last given something verging upon solace. 

In many ways, Guillermo sees this story, his religion, as something not unlike many spiritual texts, as one of forgiveness. The form, which some have called dispirited is then not lacking in excitement, but is one of almost reverence, so beautiful and indeed sacred are these figures and these images to del Toro that to present them with full mania would possibly result in sacrilege. His monsters here then are both more and less flawed than previous iterations, allowing the Creature less bloodlust, yet in turn giving it to Victor, finding for him further depth. In fact, the line Oscar Isaac walks between wanton madness, vindictive villainy and ultimately wretchedness is remarkable, an especially precise and balanced performance. Elordi’s Creature then could be seen perhaps as more traditional, yet the sheer empathy, tinged with the proper amounts of despair and rage, he is able to muster for the character is shocking, and indeed beautiful. This take that del Toro brings to the material is then neither fully subversive or even really classical, but ever personal. It is a visualization of del Toro’s beliefs; of his soul. 

However, none of this would work at all if not for the stunning craft on display, another element the general critical consensus of the film has taken for granted, excepting for a deservedly unanimous admiration for the movie’s costuming and production design. Gorgeous flowing dresses give way to cobbled, rat infested rags. The careful anatomical precision in the Creature’s construction provides excellent gore, yet accents the core ethos of the film, showing every sinew of his creation. There are frights to behold here, especially in some of the early attempts at reanimation conducted by Victor, yet these pitiful visages give way to only further empathy. While unfortunately the occasional frame’s depth is blunted in some overly slick or poorly rendered cgi, the grand sum of the experience is one of romance and gothic beauty. And of course, the frames in all their careful construction would be fruitless if not for the dynamite central performances from Elordi and Isaac, but also thanks to especially great turns from Mia Goth, giving Elizabeth even more than in the novel, David Bradley, ever under-appreciated, here as the old man, and the rest of the supporting cast. 

Claiming that a film is great simply because of beautiful craft may not be sufficient. Furthermore, it’s certainly probable that musing on a movie's destiny hardly grants it any right to definitive authority. Perhaps the weakest case to be found in this defense is stating the film is great simply because it in fact “is," and yet, every film is only ever, though quite often times more than, the sum of its parts, and when the sum of Frankenstein’s parts are properly considered, including the overall experience it grants, the result is clear. This is an expression of religious zeal from one of our great filmmakers, one which is indeed thematically loud, yet one which seemingly cannot help but excel. It’s possible the film's sensibilities do not represent what is popular currently or even are indicative of innovative currents within modern filmmaking, yet ultimately, much like its Creature, Frankenstein finds greatness within the function of its own existence, simply by being itself.

It’s alive.

no Catholic imagery here right?

did you really think you'd get away from this without me even mentioning how ridiculous it is that Netflix did not release this movie wide? I'm so glad I got to see it in theaters but it's such a joke that they won't put a film of this craft into a real theatrical exhibition, especially when it probably would be fairly successful. Anyways, I'm pretty sure it starts streaming at the end of the week.