The following article includes spoilers of the film and story Frankenstein.
A new adaptation featuring horror’s favourite misconstrued antagonist has recently been released, and it is making waves across the Netflix platform. Hitting #1 Most Watched in just three days after its release, Frankenstein is alluring and bewildering its viewers with its vivid cinematography, sensational acting, and—albeit filled with tragedy—heartwarming storyline.
But… hold on a second. Because I wouldn’t describe Mary Shelley’s original work as ‘heartwarming’ in any sense of the word. Actually, maybe in the sense that hearts were certainly ‘warming’ when Victor was galvanizing grave corpses in his dreary attic laboratory, but I digress. The original story carried a much deeper and complex depiction of the raw humanness existing amongst maker and creation. It queried the effects of religion and isolation, and actually implied quite the feminist lens with the absence of female touch. Today, we dive into whether del Toro’s adaptation of Frankenstein missed the mark when it came to the inaugural story, and if it matters when analyzing this film’s watchability.
As a vapid enthusiast of Shelley’s original novel, I would say the movie missed quite a few of the key themes and elements that make this story so beautiful. I’ve always adored how Frankenstein can be analyzed through various lenses while still fostering rich, layered discourse on each topic. Biblical allusions, references to Greek mythology, an implied feminist lens—I could go on. Most people tend to focus on the references Shelley makes to the Bible, specifically her allusions to the primitive crux of God and Adam, a relationship that was thematically called into question in the original story. This new adaptation didn’t really draw from those elements. Instead, del Toro’s film revolved moreso on the major theme of abandonment, completely foregoing the questioning and ultimate rejection of creation that was so profoundly centred in Shelley’s work. And sure, abandonment was certainly a major theme in the original story as well, but it was Victor’s constant rejection of his creation that played into it significantly. Instead of the immediate disgust, horror, and detestation that Victor reacts with in the original novel, Film Victor is amazed by his creation, coming to nurture it, teach it, and share moments of humanity with it. His reaction eventually shifts to disgust and rejection, but the layered dynamic they ended up paralleling felt more like a paternal relationship, completely foregoing the unique God/creation element that Shelley formulated in her story. The lack of immediate horror from Victor after he realized what he’d done made his reaction in the film lacklustre, and the whole ‘daddy issues’ thing was seriously boring on its own.
The lack of rejection in this movie is also demonstrated by the character of Elizabeth, Victor’s love interest in both the book and film. In the film, Elizabeth’s relationship with the monster completely contradicted Shelley’s intentions to isolate and ‘other’ the creature. In the original 1818 novel, the creature states, “No Eve soothed my sorrows, nor shared my thoughts.” (Shelley, 131). This line makes it clear that the creature wanted an Eve not for a wife, nor for any of the perverse reasons Victor assumes in both the novel and film, but simply to be understood. Nor shared my thoughts, the monster states, emphasizing the fact that he did not have a partner made with his same nature. The monster could never have taken refuge in Elizabeth’s kindnesses because she was not made of him. She was not his Eve, his partner in creation the way Eve was to Adam. The film missed this remarkable point, a moment that completely justified the creature’s loneliness. He was forced to be the only one of his kind in his world, and he had no partner to reject the world with.
By creating a loving connection between the monster and Elizabeth, the film completely takes away from this message. Shelley’s original story did imply that feminine touch is necessary to sustain life, and it seemed like the film tried to get at this point with Elizabeth’s character. However, they failed to accurately convey this message, since Elizabeth indeed provided love for the creature but she wasn’t enough to sustain him. I’ll give the movie the benefit of the doubt, assuming that they were trying to be more progressive by fleshing out Elizabeth’s character with that strange bug-loving quirk and the loving qualities she possessed. But these additions were ultimately in vain, because this relationship actually took away from the monster’s identity (and still failed the Bechdel test). The movie forewent the idea that the monster was a mangled differentiation from human beings by forming a relationship between him and Elizabeth, completely repurposing his reasons for wanting companionship.
Another problem I had with the film’s adaptation of the creature was his lack of anger. The original story’s creature uses much more devious and manipulative tactics to hurt his creator. He brutally murders Henry, William, and Elizabeth, retaliating for being abandoned and ignored. Elizabeth’s death in the story was brilliantly profound—Victor’s refusal to create a partner for the monster sent him into a blinding rage, leading him to kill Elizabeth with the vague hope that his creator would finally understand his pain. His deep and uncontrollable anger translating into dark, regrettable actions was strikingly human, an insightful contrast for a character who seemed to be anything but. In the movie, he kills none of these people, instead lashing out on a bunch of strangers in the ice fields on his trek to Victor.
These deaths were almost meaningless, providing none of the parallels to erratic human nature that they did in the story.
Another element this film missed out on were Shelley’s references to Greek mythology. The Modern Prometheus was Shelley’s alternate title for Frankenstein, and it serves as a reference to the Greek god who stole fire for humanity. The title draws a parallel between Victor Frankenstein and Prometheus, two characters who took power from divine beings and bestowed it upon a world it wasn’t meant for. Both are also punished for their transgressions, with Prometheus shackled to a mountain and cursed with an eagle who rips out his liver every day, and Victor stalked and haunted by his own creation. It’s a vibrant comparison with an abundance of complexity, but more than anything, it’s a testament to Victor’s pride more than it is to his fate. Bestowing fire to the world was a gift from Prometheus, the story depicting the god’s actions as ones of compassion. Victor, on the other hand, moved purely out of ego hunger. He was, after all, a human being, and the main message in most Greek myths is the fatal flaw of hubris. That therein, The Modern Prometheus was not meant to be a direct parallel to the story, but an example of Victor’s unwavering pride, in which he believes he is akin to a god by bestowing eternal life to humanity. The movie barely touches on this entire parallel, except for a vague and flippant quote by one of the characters. “I will be the eagle that carves out your liver,” Harlander says, but the multifaceted implication Shelley made with this title is left unuttered. That, paired with the fact that the line was given to such a throwaway character, made it more of a cheeky add-in that just screamed, “yeah, we know who Prometheus is!”, instead of the actual sentiment it was meant to have.
Somehow, despite missing so many of these crucial themes and messages, the movie also seemed to overstate its point. Another factor of Shelley’s novel that I found quite poignant was the vague and enigmatic position on Victor’s morality. His actions being wrong and near-sinful were implied heavily throughout the story, especially through Victor’s own guilt and regret. However, because of the other complexities, the characters around him that sympathized with him, and the monster’s own rage and vengeful actions, the line between right and wrong had blurred. The film did not carry this attitude. It was far too obvious that Victor was, in layman’s terms, “the bad guy.” There is literally a moment in which William looks Victor in the eye and says the words, “You are the monster.” Hello? What happened to subtlety? Having all the people in Victor’s life turn against him and blame him for his actions felt trite and redundant, completely overshadowing the delicate nuance that Shelley weaved into her original story.
Del Toro’s film simplified messages and relationships, lacked important themes, and rewrote important fragments to contradict the original story. But… does it even matter? Do the themes and morals forsaken in this film matter enough to take away from its credibility as a good adaptation? Does the film still stand on its own without those theses?
Look, the opening of the movie was pretty interesting. I loved the aesthetics of the film, the depictions of Victor’s parents, and the iconic scene wherein he demonstrates his galvanizing technologies to the board. I also thought the choice to use lightning, as other film adaptations did, instead of the electricity Victor uses in the original story, was a fun addition and actually added to the fleshy, agrarian themes of the story. But the line that struck me most, the one that took me so out of the moment that I actually leaned away from my TV and groaned at the ceiling, was when Victor apologized. Specifically with the words, “I’m sorry… son.”
This, in my opinion, was the film’s fatal flaw. It completely tore away the entire point of Victor rejecting the monster as his son. The monster calls Victor his father many times, attempting to force their connection, reminding us that even God referred to Adam as his son in the Bible… but Victor never once accepted this role in the novel, because Victor was no God. In my opinion, this is a painfully essential element of the story. I would argue that it’s the entire point.
Mary Shelley wrote this novel for several reasons, many of which came from her own hardships. She believed she had failed as a mother and a daughter, losing her children and having a strained relationship with her father, from whom she had run away as a teen. Her own child died tragically in infancy, a child whose rebirth she once dreamed about, only to wake and write in her journal, “I awake and find no baby. I think about the little thing all day.” Her grief translated into a projection of the neglect and distance she felt between her own maker, and her own creation. It’s why she wrote from both the creature and the creator’s perspective in her story. Losing that essential part of Frankenstein completely ruined this movie for me, and because of that, I don’t think it can be considered a good adaptation.
All of this to say, it was not a bad movie on its own. In fact, if you haven’t read the original Frankenstein, I wouldn’t blame you for being drawn in. The storytelling is well-paced, the characters are interesting, and the scenes themselves are capturing and elusive. That, tied with the elegant images, cinematography, and that classic vintage ‘essence’ of dried fruits, oil paintings, and silk blouses—a vibe that’s actually trending in current style blogs right now—is a perfect recipe for an entrancing film. But we must be careful not to equate beauty with dexterity. On a scale of “Elegant, wisdomous masterpiece!” to “Absolute dumpster fire” … I’d give it a “Pretty, but dumb.”
All in all, del Toro’s Frankenstein was a beautiful and compelling film, and the actors were incredible. It just… wasn’t Frankenstein. At least not for me.