**This article contains spoilers for Frankenstein (2025)**
Netflix recently released its newest book-to-screen adaptation, with Mary Shelley’s beloved Frankenstein. Directed by Guillermo del Toro, the trailer alone was enough to send fans of the classic into a frenzy of anticipation. Naturally, my friends and I crashed on the couch last Friday, ready to dive into the two-and-a-half-hour experience.
It didn’t disappoint.
Beyond the gothic atmosphere and incredible performances by Mia Goth, Jacob Elordi, and Oscar Isaac, what makes this adaptation truly extraordinary is how it shows the deep connections between the Creature and Elizabeth. Del Toro doesn’t rely on dialogue to explain their bond; instead, every glance, gesture, and costume choice communicates emotion and meaning.
This Frankenstein breathes through its visuals, letting the audience feel the world, the longing, and the shared struggles of these two characters rather than being told about them. The subtleties become even clearer when examining specific scenes where visuals carry the emotional weight of the narrative.
How a Leaf Can Show So Much
Showing the Creature’s desires through metaphors, rather than dialogue, was especially important in the first half of the film, considering the Creature couldn’t talk yet. This obstacle proved to be no feat for Del Toro, since he turned this challenge into an advantage for his craft.
When the Creature is chained up in the dungeon by Victor, although he’s constantly being called a brute, the choices he makes based on what he sees tell us more than a thousand words could.
To show his longing for freedom, we see how the Creature hyper-fixates on one element of the dungeon that’s proof of the outside world: autumn leaves.
Right after meeting Elizabeth for the first time, we get a scene where the Creature follows one of these leaves from the stream of water in the dungeon to the vast ocean beyond. However, as the leaf goes on, the Creature is pulled back by his chains, unable to follow, and looks longingly at the leaf as he goes to repeat the action again.
After his first real encounter with the outside world in the form of Elizabeth, also alluding to how Elizabeth represents life in this film, the Creature immediately creates a longing for this freedom. Instead of narrating it or having Elizabeth say it overtly to the audience, Del Toro constructs this scene to show it and to give us an affinity for this creature and his complexities, despite his inability to speak about his thoughts.
Silence through Nurturing
Del Toro never directly tells us why the Creature can’t speak, but he makes it clear throughout the film, regardless. Every strained breath, every failed attempt to form a sound, reveals how no one ever treated him with enough gentleness to help language grow.
That’s why they had his first word be Victor. The film shows us, without explanation, that this was the only word Victor ever spoke to him softly. One brief moment of kindness during creation becomes the only sound the Creature can hold onto, so it becomes the first word he can shape.
His second word is Elizabeth for the same reason. Elizabeth approaches him slowly, without fear, her movements gentle and open. The way she looks at him and really sees him teaches him more than any dialogue could. Her kindness becomes something he can imitate, and her name becomes the next word he forms.
It’s not until Act Two, through observing the quiet routines of a kind family and befriending the blind grandfather, that the Creature truly learns to speak. Del Toro shows this growth in small moments: shared meals, patient gestures, and soft storytelling. No exposition. Just warmth.
Elizabeth’s Layers
Del Toro deepens this idea of gentleness through Elizabeth’s visual transformation. In one of the film’s most intimate moments, Elizabeth slowly removes the layers of her clothing while standing before the Creature, and the gesture speaks for itself.
With each layer she sheds, we see her stepping out of the roles imposed on her: the perfect wife, the obedient woman, the silent beauty meant to be looked at but not heard. By stripping down to her simplest form, she shows the Creature and the audience the woman underneath all the expectations.
Visually, it’s a moment of solidarity. She’s showing him how she’s also made and constrained by others, without uttering a single word, and in doing so, the film makes its feminist themes more overt. Elizabeth’s act becomes a quiet rebellion against the layers of control placed on her, just as the Creature’s struggle for a voice is a rebellion against Victor’s.
Frankenstein Costume Design As a Tool
Finally, one of the smartest things this movie gave us was the use of its costume design. Elizabeth’s everyday clothing mirrors the shimmering shells of beetles, hinting at her love for insects and visually marking her as someone who doesn’t quite fit the world she’s in. The iridescence makes her look alive, curious, and hard to contain, everything society tries to suppress in her.
Her wedding dress drives the point home. Wrapped around her hands are pale bandages that look eerily like the bindings that were on the Creature when they first met. It’s a quiet visual parallel that shows how both of them are bound to roles they never asked for, his as a creation, hers as a bride.
This sequence also occurs while the Creature is pleading with Victor to create a companion for him, visually linking Elizabeth to the idea of the Creature’s longing for connection.
By the end of the scene, Elizabeth becomes more than a character; she’s symbolically his bride, not just in marriage but in the sense that their fates are intertwined. When he carries her dying body away from the wedding party, the imagery reinforces this bond: she’s both the catalyst for his grief and the emblem of the life and companionship he desperately desires. Del Toro never needs to spell it out; the costumes, the actions, and the framing show it all.
Why It Matters
Del Toro’s Frankenstein proves that the most powerful storytelling isn’t spoken, it’s shown. From the Creature’s longing to Elizabeth’s symbolic gestures, the film conveys deep emotion and connection entirely through visuals.
In an era where many directors rely on obvious exposition dumps to spell out themes, Del Toro’s careful use of metaphor and visual storytelling reminds us that empathy, understanding, and human connection are felt, not told. The result is a Frankenstein that’s both visually stunning and profoundly human.
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