Guillermo del Toro knows as well as anyone that adaptation is an art unto itself. Frankenstein is his third film in a row adapting an existing work of literature that’s also been interpreted onscreen before. The anticipation that accompanies an auteur like del Toro adapting anything—whether it’s William Lindsay Gresham’s Nightmare Alley, Carlo Collodi’s The Adventures of Pinocchio, or Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein—is that you’re excited to see his take on the material.

So what is del Toro’s take on the classic novel, one that he’s professed a close connection to his entire life? Shockingly, nothing all that interesting. This isn’t a one-to-one adaptation of Shelley’s novel; for that there’s Kenneth Branagh’s more faithful (but regrettably cringey) 1994 film, but it’s pretty close. This adap

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