Imagine stepping into a world where the line between creation and monstrosity blurs, where every stitch of artistry brings a legend to life. Guillermo del Toro’s ‘Frankenstein’ isn’t just a film—it’s a testament to the power of collaboration and the magic of moviemaking. But here’s where it gets controversial: in a world obsessed with digital perfection, del Toro dares to go old-school, crafting a $120 million epic for Netflix that feels as handmade as it is monumental. And this is the part most people miss: the true monster isn’t the creature on screen—it’s the relentless pursuit of perfection by the artists behind it.
When Tamara Deverell, the production designer, first laid eyes on the nearly completed set of Victor Frankenstein’s lab, her reaction was nothing short of electrifying. Perched atop an ancient Scottish stone tower, the lab was a masterpiece of design—a sprawling workshop bathed in light from a massive round window, filled with intricate apparatus and a haunting figure on the operating table. ‘It’s alive!’ she exclaimed, echoing the very essence of the story. But bringing this vision to life required more than just imagination; it demanded a symphony of creativity from every corner of the production team.
Moviemaking itself is a Frankenstein art, a patchwork of elements stitched together to form a cohesive whole. Del Toro’s adaptation of Mary Shelley’s 19th-century gothic novel is no exception. With a nod to old Hollywood craftsmanship, he assembled a dream team of collaborators to realize his vision. ‘I wanted a handmade movie of an epic scale,’ del Toro explains. ‘Everything—from the sets to the costumes—is crafted by human hands.’ But here’s the catch: every piece had to evolve in perfect harmony. Costume designer Kate Hawley could create the most stunning dress, but if it didn’t complement 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, ‘with a lot of Victor Frankensteins on set.’
But here’s where it gets controversial: del Toro and Hill deliberately moved away from the stitch-covered monstrosity of the 1931 original. Instead, they envisioned the creature as a newborn, a flesh-and-blood first draft. ‘I didn’t want a Cyberpunk look,’ Hill explains. ‘We’re doing Guillermo del Toro’s version of Mary Shelley’s book.’ This decision wasn’t just aesthetic—it was emotional. By keeping the creature’s face less garish, they ensured the audience could connect with its soul, not just its appearance. Yet, this interpretation might ruffle feathers among purists who hold the 1931 version sacred. What do you think? Is this a bold reinvention or a departure too far?
The creature’s evolution is further highlighted by Hawley’s costume design. Tasked with creating a wardrobe that didn’t feel like a period piece, she delivered. ‘Guillermo’s first brief was, ‘I don’t want any top hats,’’ she recalls with a laugh. The result? A creature whose appearance changes dramatically throughout the film, enduring mud, snow, wolves, and dynamite. ‘It became a huge monster in itself,’ Hawley quips.
And this is the part most people miss: the alchemy behind every detail. Take Mia Goth’s regal blue dress, for instance. It took four months to perfect, as Hawley experimented with colors and camera lighting to achieve the desired effect. Similarly, Lausten’s cinematography is a masterclass in contrast and character. ‘We’re not afraid of the darkness,’ he declares, lighting scenes with candles to create a stark, atmospheric glow. This approach, while visually stunning, might polarize audiences accustomed to softer, more forgiving light. Is it genius or too harsh for mainstream tastes?
Behind the scenes, del Toro’s collaborative spirit shines. His shorthand with Lausten is so intuitive that they often predict how shots will be spliced together. Yet, they’re not afraid to challenge each other. ‘Sometimes I try to push the blocking right to left because the light is better,’ Lausten admits. ‘Guillermo says, ‘Lausten, you’re killing me!’’ This dynamic, while playful, underscores the tension between vision and practicality—a tension that fuels creativity.
The sets, built in Toronto and on location in the U.K., are a character in their own right. Deverell’s research trips with del Toro through Scotland inspired the lab’s design, a sprawling stage for Victor Frankenstein. The iconic round window, part of a circle motif throughout the film, is also a nod to del Toro’s ‘Crimson Peak.’ ‘Guillermo wanted it big,’ Deverell says, ‘a space where Oscar Isaac could move 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 was to give voice to the unspoken emotions of the creature. ‘I needed to bring out their unspoken voice,’ he explains. For the scene where Victor assembles the creature, Desplat chose a waltz, capturing the creative trance of an artist at work. ‘In the end, we’re all Victor Frankensteins,’ Desplat reflects, though he jokes, ‘I don’t have that many pieces of corpses at home—just some ice in the fridge.’
So, here’s the question: In a world where technology dominates, does del Toro’s handmade approach to ‘Frankenstein’ feel refreshingly authentic, or does it risk feeling outdated? And does his reinvention of the creature honor Shelley’s original vision, or does it stray too far from the classic? Let us know in the comments—we’d love to hear your thoughts!
