Frankenstein

If there’s one thing I can be certain about Guillermo del Toro’s Frankenstein, it’s that as many people as possible should jump at the chance to see this visual feast in cinemas before it arrives on Netflix. Do not partake in mistaking this film’s inaccuracies for a lackluster representation of an excellent gothic novel — the main themes of man playing God, unchecked ambition, and inherent prejudice are so ever-present that some may even find it tiresome. As well as this, the electrifying cast is fucking addictive to watch, and I would argue that there’s some award-worthy performances from Oscar Isaac and Jacob Elordi, who each fully embody their respective roles through every breath they fucking draw. Really, Frankenstein is more of an apologetic love letter for the typical nihilism associated with horror than it is a timeless rivalry between creator and creation. Just because the story may travel in alternative directions does not make it any less valuable. By the end, I had become part of the emotional longing infused within the chain of emotional negligence, and a staunch believer in the hope that it could be broken. The power of cinema is that it can exceed new horizons — and yes, this has been my most anticipated film of the year, but I could’ve never anticipated that by the time the credits roll, I’d leave the theater with a bittersweet smile on my face. There can always be light at the end of any tunnel.