Imagine bringing a centuries-old monster to life—not with bolts and stitches, but with artistry, collaboration, and a dash of controversy. Guillermo del Toro’s ‘Frankenstein’ isn’t just a film; it’s a testament to the Frankenstein-like nature of filmmaking itself. But here’s where it gets controversial: in a world obsessed with CGI, del Toro dared to go old-school, crafting a $120 million epic for Netflix that feels handmade, raw, and unapologetically human. And this is the part most people miss: the monster isn’t just a creature—it’s a newborn, a soul-stirring being designed to evoke empathy, not horror. How did they pull it off? Let’s dive into the labyrinth of creativity behind this masterpiece.
When Tamara Deverell, the production designer, first stepped onto the nearly completed set of Victor Frankenstein’s lab, she couldn’t contain her awe. Perched atop an ancient Scottish stone tower, the lab was a sprawling masterpiece—a workshop brimming with ornate machinery and a malformed body sprawled on the operating table, bathed in light from a massive round window. ‘It’s alive!’ she exclaimed, echoing the very essence of the story. But creating this world wasn’t just about building sets; it was about stitching together countless elements—costumes, lighting, music—into a cohesive, breathing entity. And that’s where the real magic happens.
Del Toro’s vision for ‘Frankenstein’ was clear: a handmade movie on an epic scale. ‘The sets are massive,’ he explains. ‘The wardrobe, design, and props are handcrafted by humans.’ But here’s the catch: every piece had to evolve in perfect harmony. Costume designer Kate Hawley could craft the most lavish dress, but if it didn’t sync with cinematographer Dan Lausten’s lighting, it would fall flat. Creature designer Mike Hill couldn’t shape Frankenstein’s monster without considering actor Jacob Elordi’s presence. ‘It’s one big group of monster makers,’ Hill notes. ‘A lot of Victor Frankensteins on the set.’
But here’s the controversial twist: del Toro and Hill rejected the iconic stitch-covered monster of 1931. Instead, they envisioned a newborn—a creature of flesh and blood, not nuts and bolts. ‘I didn’t want a Cyberpunk look,’ Hill insists. ‘We’re doing Guillermo del Toro’s version of Mary Shelley’s book.’ This decision wasn’t just bold; it was risky. Could audiences embrace a monster without the familiar trappings of horror? Del Toro and Hill bet on it, focusing on the creature’s soul rather than its scars. ‘You have to keep the soul here,’ Hill says, pointing to his eyes. ‘Otherwise, you’re just distracted.’
The creature’s evolution is a character arc in itself, from its tattered hooded cloak to its journey through mud, snow, and dynamite. Hawley’s team dedicated themselves to clothing and wrapping the monster, ensuring its appearance told a story. Even the regal blue dress worn by Mia Goth took four months to perfect. ‘Everything’s an alchemy,’ Hawley admits. ‘You’d think you’d go for intense colors, but the camera light demanded experimentation.’
And this is where it gets even more intriguing: Dan Lausten’s lighting choices. While Stanley Kubrick used soft, candlelit scenes in ‘Barry Lyndon,’ Lausten opted for contrast and character. ‘We’re not afraid of the darkness,’ he declares. In ‘Frankenstein,’ light isn’t just illumination—it’s a storytelling tool. Lausten and del Toro’s shorthand is so intuitive that they often predict how shots will splice together, even as Lausten pushes del Toro out of his comfort zone. ‘He’ll say, ‘Lausten, you’re killing me,’ but we love shooting against the windows,’ Lausten laughs.
The film’s sets, built in Toronto and researched in Scotland, are a feast for the eyes. From a giant whaling ship lodged in Arctic ice to the pièce de résistance—Victor’s laboratory—every detail is deliberate. The big round window, part of a circle motif, nods to del Toro’s ‘Crimson Peak.’ ‘Guillermo wanted it big,’ Deverell reveals. ‘He was designing it in his head for Oscar [Isaac], who moves beautifully.’
Finally, there’s Alexandre Desplat’s score, the third in his triptych with del Toro after ‘The Shape of Water’ and ‘Pinocchio.’ Desplat’s challenge? To give voice to the unspoken yearnings of the creature. ‘There’s a large orchestra,’ he explains, ‘but also a beautiful violinist, Eldbjørg Hemsing, whose pure lines express the creature’s emotions.’ For the scene where Victor assembles the creature, Desplat chose a waltz, capturing Victor’s creative trance. ‘We’re all Victor Frankensteins,’ Desplat muses. ‘Though I don’t have corpses at home—just ice in the fridge.’
So, here’s the question: does del Toro’s ‘Frankenstein’ succeed in redefining the monster for a modern audience? Or does it lose something by abandoning the familiar? Let us know in the comments. One thing’s for sure: this film isn’t just a retelling—it’s a rebirth, a bold statement about the power of collaboration and the soul of storytelling. It’s alive, alright.
