Published on March 27, 2026
The notion that adapting *Frankenstein* once again for the big screen was Guillermo del Toro’s lifelong dream is perhaps irrelevant. Who knows? Marketing campaigns have long been capable of anything, and we, the undersigned, are not here to dismiss promotional slogans for movies, especially those produced , which is relentlessly positioning itself as the “Telecinco of streaming.” What I mean is that Guillermo is likely quite content with creating the film he set out to make with Netflix’s backing, there exclusive club of renowned directors hired to offset a plethora of mediocre content while staying true to their unique universes and styles (a feat achieved only by a few, including Scorsese, Cuarón, Bigelow, and himself).
Del Toro has produced a remarkable adaptation in every sense: from the meticulous and stunning production to the star-studded cast, and a reasonable fidelity to Mary Shelley’s novel (even finding space to include Percy’s most famous poem).
His creative liberties regarding the original material are justifiable, given their thoughtful execution, infused with generous doses of technique, fantasy, and genuine romanticism. He even manages to sidestep the seasoned viewer’s temptation to chuckle at characters that might seem plucked from *Young Frankenstein*, like the lonely blind man.
However, nostalgia weighs heavily on those of us with memories of earlier portrayals. It is likely that Del Toro’s “monster” is closer to Shelley’s vision than any previous depictions, even those with the beloved Karloff. That said, the iconic power of certain images and characterizations remains challenging to replace in Hollywood’s pantheon of immortality.
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