GUILLERMO del Toro’s Frankenstein is a monster of a different kind.
Bereft of poetry, darkness and grotesque, Mary Shelley’s classic 1818 novel seems to have been reimagined here for a Disney audience. Inoffensive, watered-down, and totally toneless, this brash and over-the-top blockbuster is neither heartbreaking nor glorious, as indeed it should be.
Exhausting and lacking intimacy throughout, the Mexican filmmaker’s latest is even more disappointing than previous efforts such as Hellboy, Pacific Ri, or Crimson Peak. By no means his worst, but to tackle a monster like Frankenstein and to deliver such an unemotional and overblown circus act is sacrilege.
Guillermo del Toro’s Frankenstein is a cold fish more focused on the humanity of the monster instead of the monster reflecting the cruel nature of humanity. Sure, it eats up the screen, and if it’s trite and pedestrian titillations you’re after, you’ll be placated plenty.
And you’re welcome to them. But for me, what del Toro’s ‘wretch’ has gained in intellect and charm, he has paid a heavy price for. The element of fear, passion, and horror are marked absent. This feels more like a Baz Luhrmann interpretation for all its lavish costumes and grandiose production design. It’s more coming of age story than dark night of the soul.
It’s all very cold and calculating. Where’s the lyricism, the heart, the anguish?
Shelley’s creature always longed for life and love, but del Toro, by handing it to Frankenstein on a plate, has robbed our beloved monster, and his own audience, of a story that is dizzyingly violent and provocative at its core.
Now streaming on Netflix, where it sits perfectly among similar flotsam, Frankenstein is a glossy and vain feature that fails to delve beneath the surface of Shelley’s masterpiece. It passes the time, but the heart it does not stir.
This one’s terrifying for all the wrong reasons.
(3/5)