Guillermo Del Toro’s Frankenstein isn’t horror, it’s resurrection. It moves like scripture, lit by thunder and guilt. Every frame feels touched by obsession and grace, from the trembling hands of Victor Frankenstein to the sorrowful stillness of his creation. The cinematography glows with holy menace, the lab a cathedral of flickering light and sin. By the end, you don’t fear the monster. You mourn him. Del Toro doesn’t remake Shelley’s myth, he worships it, then bleeds into

I walked into the theater like a man stumbling into the wrong war, and already suspicious of the promise that Paul Thomas Anderson had...