Frankenstein Defibrillates to No Avail

Commendably adapted or blasphemous to Mary Shelley, Guillermo del Toro’s Frankenstein is a movie — and a fair one at that. 

Skies hang ominously over a wet, bone-chilling landscape where the infamous creature doesn’t stop its rampage, as if It Follows dipped its toes into the 18th century. Del Toro’s obsession with flesh rekindles echoes of The Fly and Hellraiser, yet the core of Shelley’s tale — and del Toro’s own passion project — still jolts to unchecked ambition and hubris. It’s less about the monster than about the man who thought he could outdo God, a lightning rod, and a messiah complex.

Victor Frankenstein, played by a breathy Oscar Isaac, trembles between tortured genius and tired cliché. His descent into obsession is operatic but compelling enough to keep the story moving. Other characters, including Christoph Waltz and Mia Goth’s subplot, feel more like decorative filler than drivers of the narrative. Their presence adds minutes, not emotional weight.

As a monster movie, Frankenstein is serviceable at best — but mind the pun — it’s missing the heart necessary for empathetic yearning. Just like last year’s unnecessary Nosferatu reboot, we’re left with a creature and little more. The precedence of the monster’s longing for human companionship is largely lost in the mist, replaced by another exercise in visual indulgence and Netflix-backed CGI. 

A dark tale well-wrought, yes. An entertaining watch, absolutely. But the shock of life Shelley once gave the story now feels like it’s been replaced with a studio defibrillator. The body twitches, the lights flicker — but the heart never beats.

Frankenstein (2025) **1/2