Imagine witnessing the rebirth of a legendary monster on the silver screen – not just any fiend, but the haunting figure from Mary Shelley's enduring 1818 novel. But here's where it gets fascinating: what if this resurrection wasn't fueled by mechanical monstrosities, but by a heartfelt exploration of humanity's deepest flaws and the yearning for connection? Guillermo del Toro's upcoming adaptation of "Frankenstein" for Netflix, a $120 million production (hitting theaters this Friday and streaming November 7), isn't just a film—it's a masterful blend of creativity that echoes the very act of creation itself. Much like Victor Frankenstein stitching together disparate parts to form life, filmmaking assembles elements like costumes, sets, lighting, and music into a cohesive whole. And this version? It's a tribute to traditional Hollywood craftsmanship, reimagining the gothic tale with old-school techniques that feel alive and authentic.
And this is the part most people miss: the sheer collaboration behind it all. Production designer Tamara Deverell played a pivotal role, and one day, as she stepped onto the nearly complete set of Victor Frankenstein's laboratory—a towering Scottish stone structure crowned with a massive round window that floods the space with natural light—she was overcome with emotion. The workshop brimmed with intricate equipment, and in the center lay a grotesque form on the operating table. "I walked into the lab set when we were just finishing it," Deverell recalls, "and I was like, 'It … it’s alive!'" For newcomers to film production, think of the production designer as the architect of the story's visual world; they plan and build the environments that make the narrative feel real and immersive, drawing inspiration from history, art, and even real locations to craft believable spaces.
Del Toro, known for his passion for fantastical tales, gathered his trusted team of collaborators to realize his long-cherished vision: a "lament of the monster in its granddaddy form." He envisioned a handmade epic on a grand scale, with enormous sets, meticulously crafted costumes, and props shaped by human hands. "I wanted a handmade movie of an epic scale," del Toro explains. "The sets are massive. The wardrobe and design and props are handcrafted by humans." But coordinating all these elements required perfect harmony. For instance, costume designer Kate Hawley's vibrant gowns had to align with cinematographer Dan Lausten's lighting choices, or they risked clashing visually. Creature designer Mike Hill couldn't sculpt the monster's form without considering actor Jacob Elordi's physique and performance. "It’s one big group of monster makers," Hill quips. "A lot of Victor Frankensteins on the set." This collaborative spirit is what elevates filmmaking to an art form—each department, like limbs on a body, must function together seamlessly.
But here's where it gets controversial: Is honoring the original story's frenzy of creation while elevating the monster a bold reimagining, or does it risk softening the tale's dark warnings about unchecked ambition? In this Netflix blockbuster, del Toro balances the mad inventor's chaotic drive (portrayed by Oscar Isaac) with a sympathetic take on the creature (Jacob Elordi), a being the director has empathized with since boyhood. Hill, who first partnered with del Toro on a personal model of Boris Karloff from the 1931 "Frankenstein" film, emphasized that creatures often embody the soul of del Toro's stories. For "The Shape of Water," Hill designed the suit and prosthetics for Doug Jones, creating a poignant amphibious character. For this "Frankenstein," they avoided the stitched-together look, opting instead for a "newborn" appearance—flesh-and-blood, without bolts or mechanical elements. "I knew that if we made his face too garishly horrible, when you’re in a tight close-up on this character, if you’re looking at wounds and gore, you’re distracted. You have to keep the soul here," Hill says, pointing to his eyes. This version streamlines the creature, respecting the classic but forging a new path. "I didn’t want a Cyberpunk look to this creature in any way," Hill adds. "I respect the nuts and bolts from the original version, but we’re not doing that. We’re doing Guillermo del Toro’s version of Mary Shelley’s book. So I wanted to streamline him a little."
Hill credits the team but admits the stakes were high, akin to seeing Superman don his cape for the first time—the electrifying moment when the creature rises. One iconic feature is the monster's tattered hooded cloak, evolving through the film's trials of mud, snow, wolves, and explosives. Costume designer Hawley, who previously worked with del Toro on an unproduced "Hobbit" project, bonded over shared artistic influences like Goya's paintings. For this film, del Toro insisted on avoiding period-piece clichés. "His first brief was to me, 'I don’t want any (expletive) top hats,'" Hawley laughs. Her team dedicated full-time effort to outfitting the creature, treating the costume as its own "monster." Like in del Toro's other works such as "Pacific Rim" and "Crimson Peak," Hawley's designs use bold colors—vivid reds and greens—to convey character emotions visually. The regal blue gown worn by Mia Goth, for example, underwent intense refinement. "The blue dress probably took four months to get right," Hawley notes. "You’d think you’d be going for the most intense colors, but the way it worked on camera, through camera light, it needed a lot of experimentation. So everything’s an alchemy."
Cinematographer Dan Lausten, collaborating with del Toro since 1997's "Mimic," employs techniques like single-source window lighting, crane shots, and in-camera effects, embracing wide angles and deep shadows. "We’re not afraid of the darkness," he says proudly. Scenes were lit with candles, drawing inspiration from historical films like Stanley Kubrick's "Barry Lyndon," filmed at the same 1753-built Wilton House in the UK. But Lausten sought a harsher contrast: "We’re not soft light guys. The light should have a character," he explains. "We like to have more contrast in the light." Their shorthand allows instinctive shot planning, though Lausten sometimes challenges del Toro's directional preferences for better lighting. "He has a very strong idea about left to right in his blocking. Sometimes I try to push it right to left because the light is better," Lausten says. "He says, 'Lausten, you’re killing me, you’re killing me.' But we like to be on the dark side of the actors. We want to shoot against the windows." Together, they create atmospheric scenes filled with smoke and steam, joking about nearly scorching sets.
Sets were constructed in Toronto, del Toro's base for two decades, with UK locations for authenticity. Deverell and del Toro explored Scotland's museums, towers, and even the Crossness Pumping Station in London for Victorian ironwork inspiration. They communicate visually, referencing films and paintings rather than words. Key sets include a colossal whaling ship trapped in Arctic ice, but the lab steals the show—a circular motif echoing "Crimson Peak's" window, designed for Oscar Isaac's expressive movements. "Guillermo wanted it big," Deverell says. "I think he was designing it in his head for Oscar, who can move beautifully."
Composer Alexandre Desplat views "Frankenstein" as part of a trilogy with "The Shape of Water" and "Pinocchio," using orchestral scores to voice the characters' unspoken yearnings. "I need to bring out their unspoken voice, their unspoken emotions," he explains. A Norwegian violinist, Eldbjørg Hemsing, adds pure, emotional lines for the creature. For the corpse-assembly scene, Desplat chose a waltz, viewing it through Victor's creative trance, like an artist at work. "But very quickly we came up with this idea that it would be viewed from Victor’s point of view," he says. "He’s in a creative trance in that moment, like any painter or sculptor. That’s where we decided to play a waltz." Desplat, like others, relates to Victor's role in film production. "Yes, though I don’t have that many pieces of corpses at home," he chuckles. "I have some ice in the fridge."
So, what's your take? Does del Toro's humanized monster honor Shelley or dilute her cautionary tale about playing God? Share your thoughts in the comments—do you prefer the original bolts-and-stitches vibe, or this streamlined, soulful approach? And if you could reimagine Frankenstein, what changes would you make? Let's discuss!
