“And now, once again, I bid my hideous progeny go forth and prosper,” Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley writes in her (fascinating) introduction to the revised edition of her seminal (in both senses of the word) work. Frankenstein; or, the Modern Prometheus (1818 and 1832) has prospered in more than 430 film adaptations, to say nothing of the hundreds of shorts and television episodes, school plays and Halloween costumes featuring its Creature (Frankenstein). It is partly due to the “frankenstein” nature—in the sense that the term has become synonymous with creations carelessly assembled from disparate parts—of Frankenstein adaptations that Guillermo del Toro’s Frankenstein (2025) is often called a “faithful adaptation.” Del Toro wrote, directed, and produced it with the intention to be faithful not to the nuts and (neck) bolts of Frankenstein, but instead to “the heart” of Shelley’s work—the Creature’s tale. Victor’s tale operates as the brain, rationalizing his sins at the brink of death. Taking on a Rashomon-like he said/he said structure to clearly exhibit a central question, “Who is the real monster?,” del Toro’s Frankenstein keeps the heart intact—while adjusting some of the organs and connective tissue.

Del Toro translates the nineteenth-century tragedy—in which Victor’s Creature kills Victor’s six-year-old brother, his best friend, his bride-to-be and his father, and finally, Victor and himself—into our twenty-first-century psychological vernacular. Now, it is a hero’s journey epic exploring the Creature’s psychological recovery from his abusive and neglectful upbringing. In del Toro’s translation, Oscar Isaac’s Victor commits the murders—but this is now because he is repeating the cycle of parental abuse. Rather than an idyllic childhood with doting parents like he has in the novel, del Toro’s Victor is abused by his father—who, it is implied, lets Victor’s mother die after childbirth to do medical experiments on her. Victor therefore takes up his own medical experiment to surpass the sins of his father, while toiling in death-like isolation from his fellow-creatures. Thus, the film renders explicit what Shelley leaves implicit: Victor’s responsibility for the murders as the natural consequence of his ill-advised obsession with conquering death.

Frankenstein is often read as an allegory for growing up without a mother. Shelley’s mother, Mary Wollstonecraft, died shortly after giving birth to Shelley. The loss of both motherly and romantic love shines through most explicitly in the 2025 upgrade to Shelley’s character Elizabeth, who seems to me to be combined with Clerval in this adaptation. Mia Goth plays both Elizabeth and Victor’s mother. Elizabeth transforms from the passive dumping ground for Victor’s grief and melancholy that she functioned as in the book, into an independent thinker and scientist in her own right who, like Clerval, shares Frankenstein’s love of science, but is more capable of compassion. Wisely, del Toro translates the novel’s somewhat incestuous relationship of Victor and Elizabeth—she is raised as his adoptive sister—into a brother- and sister-in-law dynamic. When he meets her, she is betrothed to his younger brother, and they have an affair until she calls it off. Also, to her credit, she fully appreciates the innocent, kind nature of the Creature. When they meet, del Toro says, she and the Creature resemble “two parts of the same soul . . . completing each other” (Still Watching Netflix). This is a little much, especially since they don’t meet in the novel until he murders her on her wedding night. In the same interview, Jacob Elordi (who plays the Creature) describes their meeting as “erotically charged” while also calling his character “a baby” (which he, at a few days old, is) that she mothers. While creepy, this is an interesting interpretation: that Victor would have initially created the core part of himself, the part his mother loved and to which Elizabeth was initially attracted. Unlike some critics, I do not have a problem with Elizabeth’s uncle, the incomparable Christoph Walz’s Henrich Herlander, a new character who I think embodies the Victor-Clerval bromance, infused with capitalism in that he serves as Victor’s patron. The capitalist theme translates; in the book, Clerval wants to visit India to “materially” assist British “colonization and trade” (Frankenstein).

While del Toro’s reverence for Shelley, her Gothic tone and themes, shines through in dark scenes like the jewel-toned pops of scarlet, emerald and blue of Elizabeth’s Victorian dresses, I would not call this an entirely faithful translation. I also would not call its altered ending an entirely helpful diagnosis for course-correcting, individually and as a society, from centuries of parental/patriarchal abuses. More accountability is needed for the Victor Frankensteins of the world—those who create technology, like the artificial intelligence (A.I.) model Grok, without attending responsibly to the ethical consequences. There was a rebellious, revolutionary logic to Shelley’s tragic murder-suicide ending, which this adaptation reverses. I found myself asking why the onus was now placed on the Creature to free his father from his psychological burden and the ship from the ice, only to enter the blindingly bright polar landscape like a Byronic hero: alone. If he could not have a Bride of Frankenstein, surely he could have a Frankenweenie, to solidify the film’s commitment to community as humanity. The final cut strikes another blow. It is an epigraph: “And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly lies on. ~ Lord Byron.” Until the late twentieth century, Frankenstein was taught as an interesting book by an acquaintance of Byron—and the wife of his friend Percy Bysshe Shelley. Frankenstein the novel arguably critiques Byron and his namesake hero. It therefore felt insulting to be left staring at Byron’s name—in italics, resembling a signature—as the lasting impression for the film, rather than a quote from Shelley herself.

But this is del Toro’s artistic vision, and despite this questionable ending, del Toro has been a lifelong devotee of Shelley’s since childhood. He calls Frankenstein his “Bible,” the creature his “patron saint,” and credits Shelley as the inspiration for his oeuvre of misunderstood monsters from Hellboy (2004) to his Academy Award-winning (for Best Picture) The Shape of Water (2017) (Tudum). A faithful adaptation of Frankenstein, he said, would be his life’s work. More than a fan, del Toro is a disciple. He practices what Shelley preaches: moral creation—not to toil alone but, rather, create in community. In an interview with Netflix, he compares directing to hosting a dinner in Mexico, telling actors to “pass the salsa” and, at times, “put that down” (Still Watching Netflix). Admirably, when asked whether he would consider using generative A.I. in filmmaking, he said, “I would rather die” (NPR). None of the stunts are digital. This is the adaptation we sorely needed. It is a work of art that has the powerful potential to guide us as we think through our cultural, technological, and political revolutions of 2026 and beyond. The adjustments that del Toro makes can—and should—form the basis of our updated conversation around Shelley’s “hideous progeny” and her and its legacies.

Frankenstein is available to stream on Netflix.