While reimagining Mary Shelley’s 1818 Gothic horror, Guillermo del Toro radically alters some of the novel’s central concerns and subtly reshapes a few while preserving others. If Shelley’s monster was conflicting and morally reprehensible, Guillermo’s monster is grounded in vulnerability, often displaying a childlike simplicity. He reads Ozymandias and Milton’s O He laments his creation, for he is eternally damned to live a miserable life — much like Satan who was ousted from heaven in the Miltonian epic. Del Toro’s monster doesn’t so much commit cold-blooded murders like Shelley’s but acts out of self-defence, emerging as a sanitized version of its textual counterpart.
While Shelley’s monster displayed fearful vengeance, del Toro’s is relatively restrained. By making his monster (Jacob Elordi) more palatable, del Toro deprives the viewer of the moral tension that comes from debating the creature’s actions. He robs the viewers of the disturbing pleasure of tackling some of the novel’s more pressing philosophical questions: Does the monster’s alienation justify his violence? I wondered if the departure from the novel serves a larger purpose. Is del Toro, with his sympathetic gaze, coaxing the viewers to submit to a more sympathetic view of the monster? Or is this stylistic variation meant to cement Victor (Oscar Isaac) as a deplorable character in comparison?
Another significant departure is the film’s temporal setting. Shelley’s novel is set in the 1790s; an era marked by the rise of Romanticism and philosophical anxieties around galvanism, in particular the physical effect of electricity on muscle tissue. Del Toro changes this setting to 1850s Victorian England — an era known for the advent of industrialization. Shelley uses 18th century England to critique scientific hubris while exploring the ethical concerns around reanimation. In contrast, del Toro utilizes the 19th-century setting to examine how societal decay corrodes its inhabitants, often leading to irreversible moral decline.
Victor is no longer the man who frequents graves to source body parts for the monster. He, instead, relies on public executions to scout out specimens to be used in the experiment. He doesn’t just wait for the executions; he shamelessly examines criminals before they are hanged — signalling a deep moral rot in society. Towards the end of the Crimean war, Victor uses the dismembered bodies of dead soldiers to assemble the monster. It is macabrely poetic that the monster’s body itself becomes a conflict zone — one where his vengeance towards his creator and desire to forgive co-exist.
While book Victor relied on himself to fund his scientific pursuit, film Victor gets state sanctioned funding. His room in the novel is replaced by a full-fledged tower and virtually endless resources at his disposal, courtesy Henrich Harlander (Christoph Waltz). The scientific greed from the 1790s persists through the 1850s in del Toro’s film. It takes a more sinister form as ethically ambiguous scientific pursuits are no longer a solo adventure. They now have the state’s approval.
In many ways, the Crimean war becomes a placeholder for the war in Victor’s mind. He seeks to become a creator, usurping God’s authority by replacing the finality of death with enduring immorality. Victor isn’t so much at war with God as he is with himself; his actions are propelled by an unresolved inner child desperate for the validation of his deceased father, or perhaps, by a subconscious urge to avenge his mother’s death by defeating death itself. By rooting Victor’s actions in parental abuse and neglect, del Toro lays a convincing ground for Victor to create the monster, one that perhaps even Shelley would tip her hat to.
As for the relationship between Victor and William — it is a mirror-image of the relationship between Victor and his father. The elder brother here assumes the role of a surrogate parent as the younger seeks his approval, often unquestioningly obeying his orders without weighing the consequences of executing them.
Another interesting choice by Del Toro is casting Mia Goth both as Victor’s mother and his love interest — a not-so-subtle acknowledgement of the very Oedipal relationship between Victor and his mother in Shelley’s novel. In psychoanalytic interpretations, critics argue that the passing of Victor’s mother acts as a catalyst, speeding up his endeavour which seems like an attempt to resurrect her, even replace her. In Elizabeth, Del Toro creates an outspoken, feisty young woman who holds up a mirror to Victor’s vices. She is the antithesis of everything Victor stands for — she loves nature and all-things-anatomy but isn’t blinded by ambition, nor is she possessed by the desire to go on narcissistic pursuits. Her humanity shines in sharp contrast to Victor’s selfishness — her gentle and kind outlook towards the monster undercuts Victor’s cruelty.
Shelley’s Elizabeth had little agency or depth. She professes her love for Victor and represents a better future, which he forsakes for his experiments. SlashFilm critic Devin Meenan argues that Del Toro creates Elizabeth in Shelley’s own image, that of a young, strong-willed woman who doesn’t let Victorian sensibilities dictate what she can and cannot do. At the risk of sounding colloquial, I legit punched the air when Elizabeth defied William’s authority, forcing him to turn the carriage around, when she deciphered Victor’s plan to kill the monster. As opposed to letting Victor narrate the creature’s story (in a “story within story” fashion), Del Toro allows the monster the grace of first-person narration. His worldview and emotional interiority are no longer coloured by his creator’s, but stand on their own with equal force — another departure from the novel which excels in comparison.
One departure which doesn’t sit well is Del Toro’s resolution of the conflict. Can a narcissistic, evil man like Victor change? Is he even capable of self-reflection? Victor’s change of heart is thematically dissonant with the events leading up to the moment. This makes the final ten minutes of the film jarring unlike the ending of the novel where the dejected monster immolates himself. The Byron quote that closes the film — “The heart will break and yet brokenly live on” — is thematically apt, reflecting the Monster’s decision to give life another chance, even if the emotional mechanics leading to that choice remain underdeveloped.
The film devotes a substantial portion of its runtime to the monster’s creation, leaving much of the character development feeling rushed. The third act moves at a breakneck pace, occasionally overwhelming the viewer and blunting the impact of Del Toro’s stylistic choices, which might otherwise have landed more impactfully. Elizabeth’s confession of love for the monster is a striking turn, yet the director moves on too quickly to let the moment fully register.
An aesthetic experience in romanticism, the film blends beauty with intense terror, awe, and vastness. Its many sublime visuals leave the viewer in awe: think the collapse of Victor’s tower as it catches fire, or the stormy night when lightning strikes the castle and the monster is birthed. The haunting visual of Elizabeth in a blood-stained wedding gown lingers with the viewer. It feels fitting to end this piece with the most-quoteworthy line in the film – Elizabeth’s description of the sadness in the monster’s eyes: “In those eyes I saw pain, and what is pain if not evidence of intelligence?”
Deepansh Duggal writes on art and culture. He tweets at Deepansh75.
