Old Frankenstein

I’m supposed to tell you I loved Guillermo Del Toro’s vision of the classic monster movie, Frankenstein. I’m supposed to gush about how it’s a tale of a fantastic creator, mirroring the myth of the monster itself; that a man playing god would likely have some internal conflict. I know how much Del Toro wanted to make this movie, and for its credit, the staging and Kate Hawley’s costumes are gorgeous.

But was it for me? Nope.

I don’t know when we decided every movie needs to be three hours long, but I’d like to put a moratorium on that — especially when it comes to horny, half-naked, blue, manmade monsters with abs and full, erect nipples. Frankenstein did not suck, but was it some genre-defying masterpiece you need to see? No. I mean, I’m pro–movie theater, but I wish I’d watched it on Netflix so it didn’t feel like half a day without food or bio breaks..

Still, I’m going to contradict myself, because with the film’s vastness, the grandeur of how much love went into it, you probably should see it in theaters, if you see it at all.

I wanted to love this movie because I think, as shown by Pan’s Labyrinth  and The Shape of Water at least, Del Toro is a generational, visionary director. He’s someone whose work, even when it doesn’t move me, I still consider art. But really, Frankenstein just dragged. Mia Goth as Elizabeth Lavenza was cool and weird, Oscar Isaac as Dr. Frankenstein was kinda schlocky, and halfway through, I realized I wasn’t watching a masterpiece: I was watching a very long, horny art project about grief and nipples.

Credit where it’s due: the cinematography, set design, creature makeup, and costuming are all stunning. But while Goth’s bird-inspired outfits were beautiful, it felt like someone was whispering in my ear, begging me to admit this was untouchable, that I should love it because Esquire and Rolling Stone already have.

At the story’s heart, it’s about parenthood and Del Toro adapts Mary Shelley’s vision to be about the push-pull of fathers and sons. Dr. Frankenstein hates his old man, then becomes a terrible dad to his lab-created son, who turns out to be a model-like creature with long, raven hair and the Dr’s line about size, “I wanted everything big.” You can guess what that alludes to.

Somewhere around hour two, I was wondering why the movie was still going.

The story challenges a scientist to nurture what he’s made. Deep in the Anthropocene and with AI ramping up, it’s a substantial aim, and I respect it. But I felt like I was watching a pageant of makeup and props, not a profound human exploration of responsibility for actions.

Normally, I’m a good sport at the cinema – I want to enjoy the film. But this time, I was cheering more for Del Toro as a person than for the expanse of his art.

Maybe I just wanted to see him win.  To see Del Toro finally make his lifelong dream movie and remind us there’s still room for sincerity in a world of AI slop and IP sludge. But even then, the dream doesn’t always translate to joy. Sometimes it’s just homework for film kids.

Frankenstein is one of those movies you respect more than you enjoy, a stunning, lovingly crafted slog that makes you wish beauty came with an intermission.