Frankenstein

TIFF REVIEW: BY EDEN PROSSER

November 7, 2025

5 OUT OF 5 STARS

A sumptuous take on a timeless tale, Del Toro’s novel Frankenstein adapts Mary Shelley’s enduring prose into a masterpiece of monstrous proportions, transforming the backlot of Toronto’s Netflix Studios into a gloriously gothic terminus wrenched from the very constraints of space and time. Tracing the lofty scientific pursuits of troubled genius Victor Frankenstein (Oscar Isaac), the god-like pioneer chasing the revelation of reanimating life, Del Toro introduces an opulence to the locale, intrigue that simply prospers as Frankenstein’s creation (Jacob Elordi) begins to emerge. Less a creature feature than a tale of misguided ambition, an exploration of empathy, monstrosity; man, and ‘other,’ it soars into the cultural canon with sweeping grace, solidifying the auteur’s chart-topping status with all the gloriously gothic hallmarks one has, from him, come to expect. Much of this can, of course, be attributed to the impeccable detail wrought via the film’s technical crew, boasting perhaps the most impressive production design of the present annum: soft light filters through exquisitely-framed panes of glass, illuminating Victor’s workshop with an otherworldly glow; a harsh cropping of snow contrasts the aged moss threatening to overtake the fortress: locale becomes a featured player in itself, transporting the viewer into a realm entirely distinct, enthrallingly immersive. Exquisite period costuming, awards-worthy prosthetics, complete the transformation; through these elements, Frankenstein becomes not simply a film, but an absolute work of art: each frame, a departure from reality—a transmutation into a realm of sheer artistic awe.

What is perhaps the most compelling element of this particular adaptation is Del Toro’s exploration of not monstrosity itself, but that which underlies such stature. So often, adaptations of this classic have considered Frankenstein’s creation to be, well, a monster. What Del Toro, however, seeks to convey is that monstrosity does not emerge through appearance alone: a man can be a monster; and a monster, perhaps, more human than a man. A tagline of glorious intrigue—“only monsters play god”—hints at such a thesis. Does the christening of monstrosity stem from one’s external attributes—or, instead, the qualities, though hidden, that simmer beneath one’s skin? It’s a fascinating inquiry, one explored with nuanced grace throughout Del Toro’s latest. Victor’s goal, above all, was not to create monstrosity—but to produce perfection. Scraping limbs only from the most beautiful of corpses, adjusting proportions to line them up just so: his intentions, however misguided, centred entirely around a pursuit for utmost purity. The reveal of both Victor and his Creature’s characters, most fascinatingly, stem entirely from the ensuing results. Victor deems ‘The Creature’ such due to a shunning of external characteristics: exaggerated height, pronounced scarring, a frighteningly inhuman conception. What Victor misses, however, is the fact that beneath the visual sheen, his intentions were attained; his aspirations, exceeded. Gentle, innocent, The Creature is the epitome of the ideal human spirit; alas, so consumed with appearance above all—The Creature’s visual hue, yes, but so, too, his own faltering reputation—Victor is blinded to any beauty that lies beneath the skin. Deeming The Creature a failure, he entirely misses the criticality of the spark that he, remarkably, could bring to life—and mislabels him a monster, despite demonstrating such characteristics more vehemently within.

This juxtaposition—one of monstrosity and kindness, madness and humility—is further wrought through several technicalities that underlie the cinematic effort. While Isaac continually captures his literary legend with requisite instability, a burgeoning tint of scientific madness, hubris, enveloping his desperation, it is Elordi, restrained, soft-spoken, a soul alight within a hulking frame, who delivers the beating heart of the gothic reconstruction. Elordi provides a transformational performance, one accentuated not only by the excellent prosthetic reconstruction, but Elordi’s own commitment to non-verbal intrigue. In its early days, The Creature cannot speak; pained eyes, dips of an uneven shoulder, must suffice in place of prototypical language. It is in these moments, however, where Elordi truly shines, wrenching heartbreak, hope, empathy—nuanced emotive responses, impressively complex—through physicality alone. Even as The Creature ages, absorbing the capacity to produce human speech, that gentle vulnerability, physical hesitance, never entirely dissipates. It is an exceptional performance, one that tops the best of the annum; a turn well-worthy of recognition throughout this year’s awards circuit, solidifying Elordi’s status as one of this generation’s most exceptional burgeoning talents.

Though 150 minutes in runtime, not once does the film feel its great length; a credit to Del Toro’s storytelling prowess, as to the narrative’s aforementioned enthral. Framing the tale as not continuous, but a two-part reconstruction—a perspective shift, Victor’s hubris replaced by The Creature’s heartwrenching recontextualization partway through—enhances empathic compulsion, situating the viewer into the mindscape of two disparate beings, shockingly distinct. It is fascinating, truly, to explore one cinematic landscape through two vastly different pairs of eyes: Victor’s, wind-worn, aged by continuous dismissal, electrified only via scientific madness; The Creature’s, alight with the steady flame of childlike wonder, viewing the world through a still-unbroken lens. The tonal shift provided, alongside the eventual weaving of the two, provides an exceptionally compelling framework with which to explore the colligating arcs; as Victor spirals into madness, a fascinatingly antagonistic descent, The Creature maintains a gentle disposition, emerging heroic despite the weightiness of the fearful, and ultimately unaccepting, surrounding world. Electing to conclude the film in the latter’s point of view—a narratively-requisite decision, of course, though similarly an emotive boon—leaves viewers with a spark of hope; an empathic, and gloriously hopeful, lens, perhaps unexpected of a mythic tale of such tragic reputation.

There’s such a singular atmosphere wrought through a Del Toro feature: gothic, yes, though also transformational in flashes. There’s romanticism, between two linked, competing souls; electric modernism, as Victor thrums with scientific revolution; the haunting horror underlain by the depressive desperation of a monster, shunned. Much of this is precipitated via the aforementioned stellar set design: exquisite detailing down to every tiled floor, glass window; the harnessing of shadows, blotting out both physical and metaphorical light; gold hues, eliciting a vibrancy amidst the gloriously gory mess of Victor’s impressive laboratory. One would be remiss, however, to not consider the contributions of Academy Award winner, and longtime Del Toro collaborator, Alexandre Desplat: a man whose artistic endeavors are stranger to gothic romanticism, a maestro whose sweeping strings, haunting vocal tracks, underlie the effort’s emotivity. Returning to the aforementioned panel, Desplat commented upon the gentle lilt that, perhaps perplexingly, bolsters a vast majority of the tracks within his score. There are, of course, a handful of tracks with chill-inducing dissonance: tritones, clashing strings, the heavy pound of timpani; still, much of the score relies on graceful strings, wrenching evocation largely not through fear, but heart. Its delicate beauty, in contradiction to the visuals wrought throughout, deepens one’s understanding of what this film is truly about: not the horror of a classic monster, but the tenderness, the humanity, that lies beneath one’s expectations. It is impressive: the way in which this subtle weave of such a critical character cue into the auditory undercurrent enhances the film’s complexity; certainly, its nuance is deepened, providing a fascinating layer upon which to strengthen the film’s themes. The otherworldly beauty of such tracks, sumptuous and moving—some of the year’s best, glorious in their soaring romantic opulence—are simply further substantiation of Desplat’s artistic splendour.

It’s simply exceptional: the way in which Del Toro, and his team, elected to adapt a horror classic into not a tale of monstrosity, but one of utmost empathy. In an era in which uncertainty reigns, Frankenstein reminds us that what matters most is compassion, understanding, above all. Appearances, as per The Creature, can be deceiving; thus, kindness should continue to be offered; beauty, continued to be glimpsed; each act, performed to make the world a better place. As an adaptation, Del Toro’s Frankenstein shines as one of the genre’s best; as a standalone cinematic effort, it’s undoubtedly primed to become an enduring classic. Drenched in such empathy, even as it investigates the very makings of monstrosity, this film sees Del Toro at the pinnacle of his prowess, delivering an effort as contemporarily vital as it is timeless. Hauntingly beautiful, breathtakingly gorgeous: it is, without a doubt, one of this year’s best, certain to not only carve out a stunning legacy—but deservingly endure.