Guillermo del Toro's

Frankenstein & the

Fragility of Being Human

A philosophical review on Frankenstein through Shelley, del Toro,

and the romance of intellect. Why creation still hurts — and tenderness saves.

by Aryana Arian

Guillermo del Toro’s Frankenstein was a resurrection of Mary Shelley’s philosophy. It takes her philosophical ideas and brings it into a modern cinematic theology - a film that speaks to creation, empathy, the boundaries of intellect, and the fragility of being human. It feels literary, romantic, and constructive all at once: a film that breathes like a novel. Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, born in 1797 in London, was a philosopher and novelist who wrote her first novel, Frankenstein, in 1818, a work that questioned the morality of creation and the limits of human reason.

The decision to follow the structure of literature, staying true to the soul of the novel Frankenstein itself, was a delight to see on screen. It felt as if we were entering the chapters of a classical novel, each section unfolding like a page turned, but through Guillermo’s lens. The story begins with Victor Frankenstein, the scientist’s, perspective, then shifts to the Creature’s - allowing the audience to slowly uncover the truth of Victor’s nature, cruelty, victimisation of others, and the darkness that lies within his heart. By the time the perspective turns, you’re forced to question whether what you witnessed at the start was ever true, or whether Victor’s narrative was constructed to protect him from the truth of who he really is.

The film powerfully mirrors the novel’s central reflection on what makes us human, what defines life and death, and whether those who create - gods, scientists, or parents - are ever justified in thinking they are right simply because they created.

The film powerfully mirrors the novel’s central reflection on what makes us human, what defines life and death, and whether those who create - gods, scientists, or parents - are ever justified in thinking they are right simply because they created. The relationship between Victor and his father is cleverly mirrored in that between Victor and his creation. This dynamic is powerfully brought to life through the performances of Oscar Isaac (Victor Frankenstein) and Jacob Elordi (the Creature). Contrasting Mary Shelley’s novel, where familial relationships are less central, this film’s focus on them feels both original and deeply fitting. It connects seamlessly to Shelley’s broader philosophical vision, making the addition feel organic and meaningful. The same fear, reflection, and sense of inheritance that pass between Victor and his father are echoed in his relationship with the Creature. There are moments where Victor looks at his creation and sees himself, and moments where William, Victor’s father, looks at Victor and sees the true monster - one to be feared and one enslaved by his own pride.

Image: Ken Woroner/Netflix

The costume design by Kate Hawley is remarkable. The bright colours are carefully chosen to reflect the early 19th-century Romantic period while adding a haunting beauty to the film. Each outfit feels purposeful, demonstrating the tension between life and creation that runs through the story. The costumes don’t just fit the setting - they also deepen the emotional and

visual atmosphere of the film.

Image: Ken Woroner/Netflix

Mia Goth’s portrayal of Elizabeth Lavenza, Viktor’s brother’s fiancée and love interest, stands out, her costumes layered with contrasting colours that complement and oppose one another, reflecting both the Romantic and Gothic sensibilities of the period. They are delicate yet dark, beautiful yet mournful. The colour red plays a significant role. Victor’s mother is often shown wearing gorgeous red garments with red veils, symbolising blood, life, and vitality: the thing Victor obsesses over. Meanwhile, Elizabeth’s red necklace, marked by a cross, becomes a quiet motif of sacrifice and sin. From where I stood, I could see the audience at the theatre captivated by the costumes - their eyes filled with awe as a new outfit revealed itself to the front of the screen.

The story of creation emerges in many forms throughout the film - from the first book the Creature is able to read, the story of Adam and Eve in the Bible, to Elizabeth’s dialogue about temptation. Her declaration that she does not belong to this world speaks volumes. She is fascinated by insects, science, and the otherworldly, but beneath that curiosity lies a deep yearning: to be seen, to be loved, to belong. She wants to exist in a world that does not exist for her - a world that would accept her without condition. This is why her connection with Victor’s creation feels profound: both of them exist in defiance of the world around them, both of them are outsiders born into structures that reject them.

The cinematography is breathtaking and finely designed to highlight every detail that narrates the story throughout. The most memorable scene is perhaps Elizabeth with her long hair draping across her wedding dress and the scene where her head is tilted by a table as she crouches to look at the butterfly in the cage with tears in her eyes. Dan Laustsen, the cinematographer, was able to capture light and texture in such a way that turns every scene into a visual painting. Sunlight pours through windows, bringing a warmth to rooms that otherwise feel cold and deathly. His colour palette is never overdone; it resists gothic exaggeration. Instead, it reflects what del Toro said himself - that Frankenstein is not a horror film but an emotional one. Laustsen’s lighting captures that emotion fully. His use of candlelight, chiaroscuro tones, and painterly shadows evokes the stillness of 19th-century Romantic paintings, giving each frame a timeless quality - as if Shelley’s imagination were captured in oil and flame.

The choice to keep the language classical was perfect. The dialogue feels natural, beautiful, and authentic to Shelley’s world. It allows the story to remain both elevated and human, and the actors deliver it with emotional truth.

Jacob Elordi’s performance of the Creature is extraordinary. He plays the creature with a balance of fragility and strength, vulnerability and honesty. Though he was created through violence, cold, mechanical, and unfeeling, his nature is the opposite: gentle, emotional, and alive. The contrast between how he was made and how he feels becomes one of the film’s most powerful statements:

that our character is not defined by our making, but by what we choose to become. Yet, humans, del Toro reminds us, are quick to judge the how and where of something’s creation - and slow to see its soul.

One of the film’s most intelligent choices is how it follows different intellectual journeys. Victor’s intellectualism stems from ego, from a desire to control, to avenge, to prove that he is better than his father and that he can defy the natural order. His quest begins from pain and loss, but it becomes a revolt against his father’s logic and restraint. Victor rejects the warmth and compassion of his mother and instead mirrors his father’s rigidity - becoming more like him than he ever realised. Elizabeth’s intellectualism, on the other hand, is rooted in curiosity, loneliness, and a love for nature. She studies to feel connected. The Creature, too, shares this form of knowledge. He reads, observes, and studies humanity in isolation. His intellectualism is born from empathy and observation, not ego. The parallel between Elizabeth and the Creature makes Victor’s ambition look empty by comparison and the film in an extraordinary way allows us to see the juxtaposition unravel as the story goes forward.

This film feels deeply true to Mary Shelley herself. Shelley, raised among radical thinkers, the daughter of feminist philosopher Mary Wollstonecraft and political theorist William Godwin, lived within questions of reason, empathy, and the limits of creation. Her husband, Percy Bysshe Shelley, was a Romantic poet obsessed with transcendence who believed in the divinity of human imagination - and you can feel that same energy here. Guillermo del Toro builds on that foundation, translating Shelley’s 19th-century concerns into a modern cinematic theology. His Frankenstein doesn’t simply re-tell the novel; it revives its original spirit - Shelley’s critique of masculine intellect, her warning against creative ego, and her insistence on empathy as the highest form of creation.

There is a moment in the film when Alexandre Desplat, the film composer’s, score takes over completely - a haunting waltz that carries us between life and death, invention and despair. The strings rise and fall like breath itself, and the sound becomes the pulse of the story.

The music feels sacred, echoing the heartbeat of both machine and man. It’s as if we are hearing creation in motion, divine and tragic all at once.

By the end, Frankenstein becomes something far beyond horror. It becomes poetry. It becomes philosophy. It becomes Mary Shelley’s soul resurrected through Guillermo del Toro’s devotion to her ideas - her questions about life, power, and tenderness. It’s a film about what it means to create, what it means to destroy, and what it means to be human at all.

The film is set for a UK theatrical

release on 17 October 2025.

It will then stream on Netflix globally

starting 7 November 2025.