Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published “I could not understand why men who knew all about good and evil could hate and kill each other.” - Mary Shelly, Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus

Guillermo Del Toro’s long-anticipated adaptation of Frankenstein is finally here, offering 2025 its first great cinematic reckoning with a timeless classic. It is through the novel’s critical subtitle—Frankenstein: or, The Modern Prometheus—that the director finds the spiritual and ethical core of his film. For those who are unaware, the tale of Prometheus is twofold: it involves the defiant theft of fire from the gods, an act of blasphemy often cited for its theme of punishment; but, crucially, it also tells of his creation of humanity itself from the clay of the earth.

This duality is what makes Del Toro’s version essential. Where Mary Shelley warned against the arrogance of science over human emotion, Del Toro uses his cast (including Oscar Isaac as a brilliant, maddened Victor and Jacob Elordi as a completely open and innocent Creature) to emphasize the creator’s ultimate sin: irresponsible abandonment. This film is less about a monster created and more about the creator—Victor Frankenstein—who embodies the “desire for forgiveness of a father” who has failed his creation. It is a stunning, heartbreaking tale of playing God, only to find the crushing burden of humanity in its aftermath.

The true “Modern Prometheus” of the story is Victor Frankenstein, and Oscar Isaac’s performance elevates him far beyond the caricature of a mad scientist. Del Toro, in a clear departure from traditional adaptations, ensures the audience understands that Isaac’s Victor, is the film’s real antagonist, driven by trauma, ambition, and a profound inability to take responsibility.

Isaac portrays Victor not just as an ambitious genius but as a wounded son whose pursuit of life eternal is rooted in a toxic lineage. His ambition to “conquer death” stems from the loss of his mother and the emotional distance of his abusive, physician father. As Del Toro himself suggested, Isaac’s character embodies the “lineage of pain” passing from one generation to the next. When Victor, disappointed by the Creature’s lack of immediate perfection, chains him and demands obedience, he is merely repeating the cold, impossible standards he himself endured.

Victor’s quest is less about science and more about a God complex. Isaac’s performance captures the necessary blend of brilliance, madness, seduction, and pain that Del Toro requested. Costuming aids this; Victor swans around in provocatively loose clothing and red leather gloves, a deliberate choice by Del Toro to visually put the blood of his victims—and his creation—on Victor’s hands long before the actual murders occur.

In this dynamic, Isaac and Elordi are locked in a tragic dual performance: the ambitious creator who shirks responsibility, and the innocent creation who is corrupted by that neglect. The ultimate horror is not the reanimated flesh, but the human failure it exposes.

Where Victor Frankenstein represents the hubris of playing God, his creation embodies the tragic path of finding humanity only to have it repeatedly rejected. Jacob Elordi’s portrayal of the Creature is critical in cementing this theme, especially given Del Toro’s specific casting choices.

Del Toro noted that he cast Elordi specifically for his “innocence and an openness and a purity in his eyes.” This directorial intent ensures that the audience’s initial view of the Creature is that of a childlike being —a blank slate —rather than an inherently evil monster. This directly supports Mary Shelley’s theme that monstrosity is created by isolation, not born inherent.

The power of Elordi’s performance lies in his ability to convey immense emotional pain and confusion through silence and physicality. He is the ultimate victim of societal rejection, forced to learn the world’s lessons through cruelty. Every time the Creature reaches out—whether to his abandoning father, Victor, or to the kind Blind Man (played by David Bradley)—he experiences a devastating lack of parental love and basic human acceptance.

Del Toro has often called the Creature a “patron saint of imperfection.” Elordi’s acting must navigate the fine line between the Creature being pathetic (in the original sense, evoking pity and suffering) and simply pitiable. By avoiding a monstrous caricature, the performance forces the viewer to confront the true horror of the tale: Victor’s irresponsible abandonment is the real sin. The Creature only descends into vengeance because his pursuit of belonging is met with unending disgust.

Guillermo Del Toro is known for his ability to merge the beautiful and the terrifying, transforming sets and costumes into characters that speak volumes. In his Frankenstein, the visual design is not just scenery; it is a commentary on Victor’s psychological state and the emotional landscape of the Creature.

Del Toro’s labs and Victor’s living spaces are characteristically ornate yet oppressive. The sets are designed to feel like golden cages—places of immense wealth and scientific capability, isolating and elevating him from the rest of humanity, but utterly devoid of comfort. This reinforces Victor’s self-imposed isolation and his hubris. His workspace is a private cathedral of ambition, visually underscoring his desire to become a god.

Brass is used extensively in machinery and surgical tools. This metallic sheen speaks to the wealth and expense of Victor’s endeavor, but also the cold, lifeless nature of the science he is obsessed with.

Del Toro’s choice to use color as a direct visual metaphor is a distinct and clear representation of the themes he wants to present. The way he uses red is persistently linked to Victor. From his blood-red gloves to the occasional crimson-lined cloak, red symbolizes his passion, ambition, and the blood guilt he carries. It’s a visual manifestation of his God Complex—the danger and the inherent violence of his act of creation.

Del Toro’s Creature is always a masterpiece of practical effects, emphasizing the imperfect, pieced-together reality of the body. Unlike versions that lean into cartoonish horror, this design showcases the anatomical tragedy of a body that was not grown, but assembled. This visual vulnerability is key to eliciting the audience’s empathy, reinforcing the idea that the Creature is a victim of circumstance and his maker’s aesthetic disappointment.

Setting the laboratory inside a water tower, Del Toro gives both a functional and symbolic link to the themes of the story. Water and rain are often used to signify cleansing, emotional flooding, or separation. The cold, isolated environments—whether a stormy night or a desolate European landscape—mirror the emotional isolation of both Victor (trapped by his secret) and the Creature (rejected by the world).

By anchoring the narrative in these lush, symbolic settings, Del Toro transforms the Gothic horror into a beautiful, yet terrifying, meditation on what it means to be responsible for life.

Guillermo Del Toro’s Frankenstein is a profound, must-see cinematic reckoning that fulfills the promise of its subtitle, The Modern Prometheus, by shifting the focus from horror to humanity’s ethical burden. The film’s power lies in the tragic dual performance: Oscar Isaac’s Victor embodies the destructive hubris of “Playing God,” his ambition underscored by the crimson symbolism of his costumes and his lavish, isolated laboratory. His true sin is the irresponsible abandonment of his creation, which forces Jacob Elordi’s Creature to undergo the heartbreaking process of “Finding Humanity” only to meet constant societal rejection, proving that monstrosity is nurtured by neglect, not born inherent. Through a gorgeous, yet oppressive, Gothic aesthetic, Del Toro uses every detail—from cold brass tools to the Creature’s stitched vulnerability—to deliver an electrifying critique of unchecked scientific ambition, leaving audiences to confront the ultimate horror: the profound moral failure of the creator.