Review: Frankenstein (2025)

[The following review contains MINOR SPOILERS; YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!]

While there is much to savor in Guillermo del Toro’s Frankenstein—the magnificent performances (particularly that of Jacob Elordi, who previously established his horror credentials as Elvis in Sofia Coppola’s Priscilla); the pragmatically adapted script, which adopts a diptych structure bookended by a framing device to approximate the source material’s convoluted epistolary format; Alexandre Desplat’s splendid musical score—it is, first and foremost, a triumph of production design. Every shot is a meticulously crafted work of art, painting the screen with elaborately constructed sets, exquisitely lavish costumes, and deliciously tactile practical effects (prosthetic makeup, miniatures, puppets, et cetera). The movie does not merely indulge in hollow spectacle, however; these elements serve a vital narrative purpose, elegantly conveying theme, conflict, and characterization.

Consider, for example, our protagonist’s childhood home, glimpsed in the hazily dreamy flashbacks that comprise the early scenes. It is a sprawling estate of pristine stone and marble, of sharp angles and intimidating symmetry; a monument to excess and decadence, symbolizing social status, “traditional” values, and privilege—the burdensome legacy that young Victor resents and eventually rejects. The man that gave him the name he so thoroughly despises mimics these cold, sterile surroundings: when Baron Leopold Frankenstein is introduced, he is clad in a dark, bulky military uniform that perfectly matches the severity of the architecture—complementing his strict, inflexible, authoritative demeanor. (It certainly helps that he is portrayed by Charles Dance, who doesn’t exactly radiate warmth and affection.)

Victor’s beloved mother (depicted by a positively angelic Mia Goth), on the other hand, clashes with this stifling, oppressive environment, creating a deliberate sense of dissonance. In her initial appearance, she is clothed in a gown so vividly, vibrantly red that it demands to be described with flowery prose and romanticized language—it is poetry made concrete, woven into crimson thread; the fabric flows and billows in the breeze, the gentle curvature of its oscillations starkly contrasting the rigidly straight lines of the staircase upon which it falls. When she dies, any semblance of color is extinguished along with her: she is buried in a strangely cocoon-like sarcophagus, as white as the snow blanketing the earth in which it is interred, contributing to the frigid, barren, desolate atmosphere of the wintry funeral. This image is later repeated, albeit in reverse, when Elizabeth (also played by Mia Goth—*cough, cough*) wears an uncharacteristically white dress (she usually favors bluish-green garments embroidered with butterfly patterns—*COUGH, COUGH*) that is gradually stained with…

…but I’ll stop there; to reveal more would spoil the climax. Suffice it to say that this microscopic attention to detail is precisely what makes Frankenstein feel so radically inventive in an era dominated by corporate-controlled “IP,” storytelling-by-committee (i.e., shareholders and glorified accountants), and focus group testing; its director understands that film is an inherently visual medium, sculpting a rich, evocative, and absolutely seductive sensory experience that effortlessly blends (or, if you prefer a more obvious metaphor, stitches together) style and substance.