Frankenstein (Netflix)
A strangely lifeless creation from Guillermo Del Toro
What is it? A brilliant but egotistical scientist brings a creature to life in a monstrous experiment that ultimately leads to the undoing of both the creator and his tragic creation.
Watch if you like: Crimson Peak, Nosferatu, The Shape of Water, Pan’s Labyrinth
Schmear’s Verdict: Handsome and heartfelt but never thrilling, a beautifully crafted film that just doesn’t stir the blood.
“It’s (not) alive! It’s (not) alive!”
From jump street, Frankenstein wasn’t working for me. If Guillermo del Toro had made this movie twenty years ago, I’m convinced it would’ve been great. Back then, his creative limits—smaller budgets, tighter constraints—brought out the best in him. Here, unshackled thanks to Netflix’s bottomless pockets (a rumored production cost of $120M), he’s adrift. The result feels both too grandiose and strangely hollow: massive sets populated by five people, no pulse beneath the surface.
It’s impossible not to watch this and compare it to Robert Eggers’ Nosferatu. That film, though flawed, was scarier, hornier, and more psychologically dense; Frankenstein has no real heartbeat. It’s neither fearsome nor sexy. It wants to be a gothic romance, but it plays like a fairy tale drained of wonder. Oscar Isaac’s performance is grating, Jacob Elordi does his best to inject some emotion, and Mia Goth and Christoph Waltz are almost entirely wasted.
I hesitate to come down too hard—del Toro remains a meticulous craftsman. The production design is clearly labored over, and certain images have that familiar spark of imagination. But then the CGI wolves show up, or the lighting goes flat and televisual, or the sets start to look like they’ve been borrowed from Wicked…Any sense of intimacy or awe collapses under the weight of artifice.
What’s missing most is grounding. Pan’s Labyrinth was alive with political charge and mythic allegory. Frankenstein feels untethered to anything. Even if you’ve forgotten Mary Shelley’s novel, you can see most story beats lumbering forward predictably on the far horizon.
Frankenstein does not feel like the work of the man who made Hellboy, The Devil’s Backbone, and Pan’s Labyrinth. It’s polished, expensive, and passionless—a creature stitched together without a soul.
