Frankenstein

What’s always true with Guillermo del Toro is his deep, deep love of movies. There’s love in every single frame. He just CARES, and I admire that. Not just anybody can come along and do another adaptation of Frankenstein. We didn't need one. It's been done. From the Kenneth Branagh iteration produced by Francis Coppola to the perfect spoof, Young Frankenstein, to the "Franken Berry" cereal, this pie has been baked. Yet the confidence Del Toro enjoys to tell his version of the story is off the charts. 

The key, the gist to the whole story, something we've always known, is that "Frankenstein" is the monster. We've always known that, I suppose. Seeing him get smacked in the face by his abusive father and watch his mother be buried in her terrifying, face-exposing coffin, you can conclude that it's not going to end well for Victor. And while the business of building the creature is necessary, it's only the first part of del Toro's version - the grotesque part. Watching Victor wander through the battlefield, pick through the bodies, and hack them up is truly monstrous. Not an unexpected sentiment from del Toro. But the beautiful stuff will come. Unlike Pinocchio and Nightmare Alley, which seemed to dwell and stew in the ugliness, Frankenstein turns a corner when the creature tells his version of the story. Jacob Elordi's embodiment of the creature is a big, strapping beefcake of a dude, and his depiction is way, way more nuanced than we've seen. He's anything but a monster. And the beautiful stuff in the second half, near the end, is del Toro's cinematic interpretation of "inner" beauty, it's moving and inspiring. This was terrific.