Victor Frankenstein is an unlovely, narcissistic, out-of-control scientist who, in order to get back at his odious, violent, dangerous father, creates a lovable, innocent and harmless monster whom everybody likes more than its creator. If “Frankenstein” (Netflix), showing now at the Montrose Playhouse, is to be taken at face value, that’s the thirty-four word summary.
Rather than having a go at describing how honestly the film clones the 280-page source book—“Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus,” written, in 1818, by Mary Shelley—we need only concern ourselves with the lavish new movie, which stars Oscar Isaac as Dr Frankenstein and Jacob Elordi as “The Creature.” Mr Isaac is not as nasty as the filmmakers demand of the portrayal of Dr Frankenstein; he needs a helping hand by means of sets and props laid on thick. For instance, a bustling Edinburgh butcher’s alley (gruesomely streaming with animal blood and blazoned with dozens of pigs heads) emotionally prepares the audience for frightful scenes of Victor’s acquisition of suitable human bodies for his research—either from the already-dead lying in the trenches on the battlefield or from the nearly-dead assembled poor waiting for the hangman’s noose. When Victor has enough acceptable bodies, he performs delicate dissection using equipment better suited to a building site (the film is not for the squeamish).
The first half of the film recounts the creation of the monster. First, the cruel father who favours Victor’s brother William and whom Victor accuses of murdering his mother in childbirth. Then the decision to follow his father into “medical” school—the arrogance to proclaim that “I have tried to expand the narrow limits of academia,” give us the measure of the man. This skilfully generates the momentum necessary for “Frankenstein” to arrive at its tour de force: an almost superhumanly complex scene as Victor defends his dissertation in an unusual, steeply-banked, in-the-round lecture theatre. The filmmakers startle us with their ability to capture the distortions of the prototype creature, Victor’s extroverted presentation style, the reflexes of his fellow students, and especially the disgust of the front-row audience of wigged professors. “This is a hearing, doctor, not a carnival act,” one of them remarks. It is five minutes of exciting, thrilling and immensely creative work shot in an arc with the camera moving giddily to take in all that is going on. The studios where Victor creates “The Creature” are decked out like a fifty-year-old bric-a-brac store which has never been cleaned. Clutter everywhere, dismembered bodies, anatomical drawings, cadavers splayed open to examine the lymphatic or nervous system in close quarters. Scene-by-scene, Victor goes mad. We witness him trying to impress—and pull his brother’s fiancée—as the dapper, white-tied bachelor demonstrating his dance moves at high-society events. An hour later, he is running from his secluded laboratory—shirt flapping, face grimy, speech manic—just prior to setting fire to his whole creation. “I fear you, brother,” says William. “I always have. You are the monster.” Mr Isaac is an exceptionally talented actor; his plunge into utter madness is as well-controlled as a full-orchestral crescendo in the hands of an outstanding conductor.
The second half mostly involves Mr Elordi who puts in, if this is possible, an even more impressive performance (and redeems himself after one of this years worst movies, “On Swift Horses”). He is costumed, made-up, and coached thoroughly in credible mannerisms to play “The Creature.” (Hopefully he will soon lose his propensity to mimic Austin Butler’s “Elvis.”) But the filmmakers make one brutally effective decision, which is to make his character sympathetic, such that the audience will consent to his ferocious revenge. “If you are not to afford me love then I will indulge in rage,” he says to Victor. And the parlays between monster and creator are well-dialogued; “In you I have created something truly horrible,” Victor says. “Not something,” the monster replies. “You made someone. Me.”
One of the characters who likes him is William’s fiancée, played by Mia Goth (who also plays Victor’s mum). The inappropriate approach from her future brother-in-law becomes a gentle attachment to his creation. Ms Goth turns the starkly patronising society of the day on its head: “Run to your brandy and cigars,” she tells Victor, tidily dismissing him after dinner one evening. “The boys are waiting.”
The element which could be explored more is the nitty-gritty of how the Frankenstein family—and, for that matter Victor’s wealthy patron—came to amass their fortune. “[Victor’s mum’s] dowry was considerable,” we are told; one throwaway line about a revolt on the plantations tells us the answer. The money came from enslaved people. And this leads directly to my major criticism of this work which is the near-infatuation with aristos and assorted upper-class socialites. Dances, balls, dinners, costumes, plummy accents, liveried butlers; location after location, set after set. All are renditions of one idea—which been done to death in film. Cinematically this boring content comes perilously close to overbalancing the entire enterprise and dilutes the powerful story that is being told. Finally, I am surprised that the B.B.F.C. opted to award “Frankenstein” a 15-rating. The graphic scenes of hanging alone, and the course scripting that accompanies it—“You, you’re lucky to be hanged.”—should have sealed an 18-certificate.
What manner of creature is that?” the captain of the ship that rescues Victor from “The Creature” asks. “What manner of devil made him?” “I did,” Victor replies, “I did. I made him.”
Adam Poole
29th October 2025
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