Last year, during my sophomore year of high school, I read Frankenstein by Mary Shelley in my English class. At first, the language felt dense and intimidating, however through constant annotation and daily analytical discussions, the novel gradually unfolded. By the end, I didn’t just understand the plot, but I understood the moral tension at its core: ambition, responsibility, and the cost of creation.
So when, months later, I received a text from an old classmate with a trailer for a new Frankenstein movie, I was thrilled. Finally, a film adaptation I could genuinely look forward to…one I wouldn’t need to pause every five minutes to ask, “Wait, who’s that?” or “What’s going on?” For once, I expected to be the one explaining the atmosphere, the characters, the dread simmering beneath every scene.
At least, that’s what I thought.
To be fair, the film gets some things right. The production design is striking, and the gothic visuals are undeniably captivating. The cast is impressive, featuring Jacob Elordi, alongside Mia Goth, Oscar Isaac, and more. The costumes are intricately designed, and the scenery feels carefully curated—moody, atmospheric, and visually rich. On the surface, the film looks like it understands Shelley’s world.
But aesthetics alone cannot carry a story like Frankenstein.
What ultimately makes the movie anticlimactic is its treatment of the plot. The narrative strays so far from the novel that it begins to feel disconnected from the very ideas that made Shelley’s work endure for over two centuries. Scenes jump erratically, character relationships are altered in ways that drain them of meaning, and key roles are reassigned or reinterpreted without a clear purpose. The result is a film that feels scattered rather than suspenseful.
For readers who truly loved the book, this is especially frustrating. Frankenstein isn’t just a monster story, it’s a carefully constructed meditation on guilt, isolation, and moral responsibility. When those relationships and motivations are distorted, the story loses its emotional weight. As any devoted reader knows (and as I would probably text my friends), if you know, you know.
In trying to reinvent a classic, the film forgets what made it powerful in the first place. Shelley’s Frankenstein doesn’t need spectacle to shock, it relies on its ideas. And when an adaptation sacrifices those ideas for style, it may look beautiful, but it no longer feels true.
