Art of any kind has a greater impact when it feels personal. If a movie, poem, melody, or novel captures a moment or feeling that echoes through one’s memory and mirrors any aspect of a specific recollection–if even only slightly–is bound to stay with us. Or at least this is what I can say about my experience with art. Renowned film director, Guillermo del Toro’s answers in various interviews following the release of his adaptation of Mary Shelley’s masterpiece, Frankenstein tell me he may share this stance.

The Mexican-born director, Guillermo del Toro Gómez, grew up surrounded by books. From the collection he gathered during his childhood and teen years, he was most intrigued by the nineteenth-century Gothic literature classics (including Shelley’s Frankenstein). His interest in film and literary horror creatures, as well as for the real-life monsters of human conflict and prejudice, has been evident throughout his entire career, so it is no surprise that he chose to take on the task of adapting Shelley’s 1818 text. del Toro mentioned in some of his latest interviews that this adaptation has been in the making virtually since he first read the novel. As he puts it for CBS Sunday Morning, “I gave it [Frankenstein] over fifty years of my life!”

Considering this, Frankenstein (2025) is an ambitious piece of what I like to call “[…] critically acclaimed self-insert fanfiction.” This is in no way a demeaning comparison, of course. Fanfiction is a vital part of modern media consumption, and in my opinion, its role in fostering creativity should be analyzed and appreciated more often.

The film is beyond vulnerable, and with the context of del Toro’s interviews, one can see just how personal this project is. The Mexican filmmaker has always been drawn to father-son stories, as he told BBC Radio and CBS Sunday Morning. To him, “A father is always a big shadow on a child, and then you behave like a child, and you become a father, and you are still behaving like a child, and you pass that shadow […]If you don’t talk about it, no one tells you about it.”

It is clear that he needed to tell this story–his story–and he did.

This is why this is a screen adaptation, not a one-hundred-percent accurate reenactment of Shelley’s classic. del Toro told CBS Sunday Morning, “You transmute; you don’t translate,” referring to the variation in his interpretation of Shelley’s text.

The opening sequence of the film–although more eventful and violent than Shelley’s classic–highly resembles the novel’s beginning. del Toro begins with the Arctic’s sublime imagery, a captain noting two travelers—one human and the other not so much—from the distance. del Toro transmutes the ambitious Captain Robert Walton from Shelley’s novel into a new Captain Anderson (Lars Mikkelsen), emphasizing one of Shelley’s work’s original and essential themes: the search for power and control over the uncontrollable, while ceding the main stage to the relationship between Victor (Oscar Issac) and his Creature (Jacob Elordi) to tell the story del Toro wants to illustrate.

Victor’s motivations and story are practically the antithesis of what Shelley’s text offers. Victor begins his account by saying, “My father gave me that name. It all started with him. With my father. And my mother.”

In the novel, Victor has a loving father, and with the exception of his mother’s death, his childhood is perfect, which makes his megalomaniac pursuits more infuriating. Shelley frames Victor as an odious narcissist who invites zero sympathy or empathy from the reader. Yet, del Toro makes the active choice to change this by giving Victor an aristocratic origin filled with neglect and psychological abuse from his father. The famous trope of the too-proud father who demands his first-born to become a copy of himself is used here. This change, of course, aligns with del Toro’s theme of forgiveness and generational curses that inevitably manifest regardless of one’s intentions.

As del Toro states in his interview with CBS Sunday Morning, “Your father is not a supernatural being, he’s just a guy, and making peace with that identity, with the identity of you and your father by stopping the pain, whatever it is, by forgiveness and acceptance, it makes it profound and it makes [this script] mine.”

For years, del Toro has claimed to see himself in the monsters and creatures of the works that inspire him. That is why he enjoys horror so much; it allows him to tell stories about the outcasts that provided solace when he was young. He sees himself in the misfits, but at this point of his life, as a father and flawed human, he also saw himself in the man who played God and paid for it.

Now, the dialogue I mention is direct, yes, but it unfortunately feels redundant. This may be due to my established aversion for Victor’s character, but I constantly felt like I was being “spoon-fed” (as Anali Mendoza said in her review of the film for The Mirror and the Lamp) the redemption journey of Shelley’s protagonist.

Del Toro centers forgiveness as the film’s overarching theme, and that choice seems to be a controversial one in some online conversations. Shelley’s text is not driven by forgiveness. It is rather filled with resentment and repression of all sorts. Its narrators seem irredeemable due to their entitlement and violence, and maybe that could have been the focus of the film if del Toro had made it earlier in his life, when he was not a father himself.

Del Toro is anything but subtle in representing this theme, and although it works when the Creature becomes more than a reflection of his progenitor’s fears and biases—the violent, savage monster—Victor’s vindication despite his heinous actions does not feel viable. Sure, the Creature’s forgiveness is not for the sake of Victor’s peace, but for his own. It is meant to break the cycle of violence that tormented them both throughout the film. Yet, as I mention, it is not earned on Victor’s part, so it feels like a cliché. While Shelley’s Victor Frankenstein is as entitled and unethical as del Toro’s–both having committed vile acts for the sake of glory–the latter accepts responsibility, but he does so too late. This vindication seems obsolete. But maybe that is the point. Some parents do not realize their errors until their death bed, when it is virtually useless in counteracting the long-established resentment those mistakes may have bred. I have seen it, and del Toro seems to have done so, too. This film could be seen as a letter of accountability to his children and forgiveness for his father, which I think is incredibly moving.

Some may think that showing a tragic, traumatic past is excusing of Victor’s actions. This is a view that is valid, but there is more nuance in this discourse. Family relationships tend to be extremely complex, and while everyone is entitled to view the spectrum of familial bonds with whatever lens they pick, del Toro chooses to depict the paradox of becoming that which you dreaded as a child.

Parenthood is complicated. Being someone’s child is complicated. Generational trauma is overwhelming and difficult to escape and deconstruct, but not impossible, and I love the way the film emphasizes hope this way. The hope for something better, for an apology, a reconciliation, compromise, or simple peace of mind. Hope for a future that is not shadowed by the echoes of neglect, grief, or expectations. Hope for the potential that emerges as a cycle closes.

The cinematography is stunning, the prosthetics used for the physical construction of the Creature are outstanding along with the body parts props, and the costume design is beyond exceptional. Oscar Isaac’s performance as the charismatic Victor Frankenstein is marvelous, but I would say he is eclipsed by Jacob Elordi’s absolutely enthralling embodiment of the Creature. The innocence of his eyes and the wonder of his movements made me weep at the sight of his first interactions with his Creator and the outside world.

In this sense, the film is more than faithful to the original text. It invites the audience to direct their sympathy to the Creature. Nevertheless, it also presents Victor as a forgivable individual, and while I strongly disagree with such a conclusion, this choice does offer the Creature the chance to find peace in forgiveness, and that is something I admire.

In brief, while I disagreed with many of the changes del Toro made for this project and even felt some of them may have been more than a bit forced, I also think they were necessary. Different perspectives and interpretations are necessary. Contradiction is essential in art and life, and I am so glad this film explores additional themes and diverges from the original source.

At this, I cannot help but wonder, what did del Toro’s children think of this film?