In an interview with El Mundo America to promote his new film Frankenstein, Guillermo del Toro stated that when bringing a universal myth to the screen, “the myth itself rises so far above the original material that any interpretation is equally faithful if done with sincerity, power, and personality. If you think in terms of fidelity to the canon, you would be completely paralysed”. Wise words no doubt – many faithful adaptations have blessed the screen (and even if they are, to some degree, absurd, they remain profoundly moving), as have those who roam from the source material in search of something new. I say this because I truly believe an adaptation can develop and enhance a storyline, or at least, act as an homage to the original. However, del Toro’s Frankenstein is unfortunately neither of these things – dangerously unlike its inspiration, saying nothing new in return, it twists and savages the heart and soul of Mary Shelley’s masterpiece.
Most will know the story behind how Frankenstein (book) came to exist – in 1816, or the Year Without a Summer, Mary Shelley, husband Percy Bysshe Shelley, half-sister Claire Clairmont and friend Lord Byron came up with a ghost story competition one dreary night. While the others attempted, abandoned, re-visited, Mary created what is now considered the first work of science-fiction – whether it was just a story, inspired by her readings, or drawn from her difficult life of grief and familial turmoil, still remains up for debate. For those who have not read the book, of which there are two versions (an anonymous 1818 one, followed by an 1831 version which made some tweaks and featured a preface in which Mary revealed herself as the author, dissuading any who had thought it to be her husband), there may be use in a quick summary. In a series of letters to his sister, Captain Robert Walton recounts the story of Victor Frankenstein, a disturbed gentleman he finds stranded and weakened in the Arctic. Frankenstein details, tale-in-tale, his educative upbringing in Geneva, followed by his university years, which fuel his fascination for life and death, and end with the creation of a being made up of dead body parts. Disgusted by his creation, Frankenstein refuses to take ownership, or care for the “monster” who, while confused at first, quickly turns vengeful when he realises he has been abandoned by his creator, thus engaging in a killing spree and gradually destroying Frankenstein’s life. The story is told largely from the latter’s perspective, though the creature is eventually given a voice in a tale-in-tale-in-tale, telling of his gradual education by watching a family’s homelife and lamenting his feelings of loneliness and abandonment as a result.
Del Toro is a natural when it comes to aesthetic, costume and décor, and Oscar Isaac as the central character – nay, villain – is exactly what he needs to be: a being for whom one can only feel hate. For that, Isaac deserves worthy recognition in this role. However, this, as a film, is not Frankenstein. It is rather a mangled adaptation that has none of the soul of the original masterpiece and, though beautiful to watch, feels more like a horror version of Wicked than a macabre gothic tale. Perhaps it is that some of Shelley’s novel is slightly too convoluted for the screen – Victor’s constant backs and forths between home, university, and (undeserved) getaway trips, would have no doubt fallen apart from a pacing perspective. The central issue to del Toro’s adaptation is that all the choices to change, omit and add feel like the wrong ones entirely, harming rather than embellishing. When we first meet Frankenstein as an adult (far older than in the book), he is presenting a reanimated corpse to the Royal College of Surgeons of Edinburgh (and thereafter fired) – as such, there is very little, besides a couple of sequences with his father, about his education and growing interest for the macabre and secret of life, a key theme that acts as the genesis of the story. In the film, he is instead approached by the wealthy arms manufacturer Henrich Harlander in the form of the great Christoph Waltz, who offers him unlimited funding and an abandoned tower to conduct his experiments in. Convenient, certainly, but the issue here lies not with this, but rather with – uselessness of the character aside – what it represents. Frankenstein was never meant to have any manner of tools or companionship in his creation: rather, he operated largely at night, grave-robbing in secret, grovelling in grotty quarters, acting entirely on his own whim. That he should have shiny equipment (and an inordinate amount of CGI) and a group of people helping him completely misses the mark. It is perhaps possible to read this as a mere cinematic update – but to do so would be to undermine Shelley’s story, which focuses first and foremost on Victor’s inescapable solitude and the heinous behaviour that ensues as a result. He acts this way precisely because there is no one – for want of a better word – to check him. For it to be made into a spectacle that all, even Elizabeth (here not his cousin/fiancée, but his younger brother William’s), can take part in does the intentions of the book and the self-obsessed character of Frankenstein a disservice. Rather, it makes them all unlikeable when there is only one at fault, and turns Elizabeth into an empty shell of a woman, since in being the only one to “see the monster as he truly is”, she also becomes the only one depicted as capable of empathy. Not only does this directly contradict Shelley’s overall morale, it is also a great shame for the sole female character (despite Mia Goth’s performance) to have so little personality besides falling in love with the monster. This worked with The Shape of Water, but Frankenstein as a story isn’t malleable like del Toro’s original tales – it already has heart, it already has a lesson, and to twist and turn the characters to fit with his favourite tropes is as offensive as the construction of the monster himself. Elizabeth was certainly only a love interest in Shelley’s novel – but at least neither the character nor the writer pretended that she was anything else but. The same applies to the harsh removals of young William, here an adult (Felix Kammerer) rather than a child, and his maid Justine, who is accused of his murder and executed. The death of a toddler is horrific to behold, and the first sign that none, not even children, will be spared at the hands of the monster’s rejection-fuelled rage. His murder is just that little bit more vicious (considering Shelley lost three of her children before they reached adulthood) – but with del Toro’s version, twisted violence is simply replaced with gratuitous or, worse, aesthetic gore. Since Justine, innocence incarnate, is also omitted, there is little time spent on Frankenstein’s selfishness and cowardice – this is no doubt the instance in the book in which he passes the point of no return. And it goes without saying that childhood friend Henry Clerval, who acts as a foil to Frankenstein, is a deletion that eradicates any friendship in Frankenstein’s life and the important lesson that not all ambitious paths lead to treachery.
The creature’s encounter with the De Laceys, finally, poses an interesting issue – in the book, the creature recounts his gradual education by listening to the family speak and reading their literature, learning all manner of philosophy and science in the process. He becomes transfixed by them and, eager to be friends, approaches the blind father (played by David Bradley in the film), hoping that he will accept him as a person first and convince his children of his gentleness and kindness. In the book, the children return home while they are having tea, and the old man seems to be repulsed by him, shouting “who are you!” before the monster is banished from their home. In the film however, the old man is attacked and killed by wolves, whispering in his dying breath that he will always be the monster’s friend, before his sons surprise them. In Shelley’s original, this is a learning curve, a pang that only fuels his hatred for his creator/father, and the reason for which he thereafter requests a mate – the very point is that there is no solace for him and, in this respect, a nuanced feeling for the reader, who is disgusted by his murders but deeply empathetic towards his situation. Yet in del Toro’s narrative, it is yet another instance in which the monster is deemed worthy of love. No doubt his specialty, and a worthy one, it nevertheless undermines the whole message behind Shelley’s story – that Victor’s drunken quest for knowledge and power has led to an abomination he refuses to take care of and cannot contain. The monster is the direct consequences of dangerous ambition and, in turn, what happens when parental responsibility is rejected. For him to then be immediately loved and accepted without rhyme or reason is an abomination itself – even if it is Jacob Elordi underneath all of that fur.
