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Published
Dec 2, 2025 - 13:08
Is it true that a filmmaker essentially explores a single theme—or a single universe—through the whole of their work, in the sense that everything ultimately forms a coherent whole, as Jean-Luc Godard suggested? Guillermo del Toro seems to fit this theory perfectly. The Mexican director, who has just delivered (on Netflix) his own version of one of cinema's most exploited figures—Mary Shelley's Frankenstein —appears driven by a foundational, almost obsessive, even prophetic intuition that is indeed detectable throughout his entire body of work and gives him a rare coherence. For del Toro, the monster is never the monster. Deformed otherness, scarred flesh, unnatural anatomy are never synonymous with actual monstrosity in his work. Quite the opposite: in the Mexican director's vision, the monster is the most human figure of all—one bearing the weight of suffering, loneliness, rejection, humiliation, but also love. Admittedly, he is far from the first to venture onto this terrain. But in an increasingly dehumanized world, his project rings with an even more striking truth. The real monster? It is man, when he abandons his own humanity, when he allows himself to be possessed by the desire for domination, narcissism, cold science, war, or the fear of death and the will to substitute himself for the Demiurge. In this sense, del Toro's entire body of work appears as one long indictment against monster-makers: regimes, armies, laboratories, scientists, tyrannical fathers and glacial moralists who claim to stand on the side of Good, Reason, or scientific modernity—but who ultimately produce only destruction. There are no monsters, del Toro tells us. There are only torturers who believe themselves invested with a grand project, but who are, in fact, merely delusional figures seeking to repair their narcissistic wound. In El laberinto del fauno ( Pan's Labyrinth —2006), undoubtedly one of the most beautiful films of the 21st century, the supposed monster—the unsettling faun, half-shadow half-light, messenger from an archaic world—is in reality nothing but a spiritual response to Franco-ist barbarism. The true monster is Captain Vidal, prototype of the cold, mechanical fascist, free of doubt, obsessed with posterity and the myth of the father. Against Ofelia's innocence and her salvific imagination stands the methodical cruelty of power. The mythological monster becomes a refuge, a regulating figure, a last bastion against moral devastation. What Del Toro is trying to say here is essential: the monster is not terror, it is the antidote to terror; the last refuge of innocence to avoid and ward off horror. The saving sanctuary where the soul can still breathe. The same logic runs through The Shape of Water (2017), this masterpiece in which an aquatic creature, imprisoned in a military laboratory and tortured in the name of science, proves capable of loving with a purer, more complete, more absolute love than the humans who dissect it. Here too, the true monster is not the one displayed in the aquarium: it is the empathy-free scientist, paranoid Cold War America, social normality obsessed with appearance, conformity, control. This film is fundamentally a manifesto from del Toro, asserting that humanity does not reside in man but in the capacity to love. Loving is the only engine of survival, as Leonard Cohen said in his song about the monstrous future he had foreseen in the early 1990s, with the end of bipolarity. Yet man is often incapable of loving. That is what makes him a monster. The monster, in inverse dynamics, accepts the most painful but also most beautiful learning—that of learning to love. This theme is brought to incandescence in Frankenstein , del Toro's dream project for thirty years, which finally finds its form. This is the foundational story of many monsters: the creature that never asked to come into the world, born from the whim of a narcissistic creator, a father intoxicated with power, a man who wants to steal from God the secret of life without assuming ethical responsibility. Frankenstein is the absolute condemned: one who has no place, no identity, no language. One whose only desire is to love and be loved. "I am alone," he says in Mary Shelley's novel. Frankenstein is nothing other than this monster in each of us, seeking love, so that we might finally fully access otherness, connection, humanity. Yet the world insists on designating him as a monster, regardless of facts, desire, will, or heart. He is condemned to rejection, without appeal. Yet Del Toro overturns the entire cinematic tradition here. The great James Whale had already given the monster a tragic, almost Christlike dimension in the earliest films about this figure brought to the screen— Frankenstein (1931), then the magnificent Bride of Frankenstein (1935), before the character became a staple of Hammer horror films; brilliantly parodied by Mel Brooks ( Young Frankenstein , 1974) or poorly theatricalized by Kenneth Branagh in 1994, with a major casting mistake—De Niro in the title role! But del Toro innovates: he offers the monster's perspective, its subjectivity, its stifled cry. He finally gives it a voice. The creature becomes a mirror—a mirror that man refuses to look into. Because he would see the truth—that the monster is him. This leitmotif is present throughout del Toro's work. In Hellboy (2004), where the child of the devil's inevitable trajectory is to lead the world to destruction, yet he chooses to rebel against his biological destiny—and conquer his freedom. In Nightmare Alley (2021), where the real monster is not the carnival beast but the man who sinks into the illusion of absolute power and mutilates himself psychically until he becomes what he believed he dominated: the beast. In Pacific Rim (2013), it is not the colossal creatures emerging from abyssal rifts that are monstrous, but the technological arrogance of a world believing it can control everything. Even Pinocchio (2022), in del Toro's hands, does not escape this law. As in Steven Spielberg's A.I. , the wooden boy is more human than the adults around him. The father, however, is imprisoned in his grief—wounded but tyrannical—and fascist society instrumentalizes the child as cannon fodder. Then there is El Espinazo del diablo (2001), a spectral and deeply moving film in which the ghost of a murdered child comes to haunt an orphanage during the Spanish Civil War. The ghost is not a specter of terror but a guardian of memory, the voice of justice against barbarism: killed innocence, literally. The ghost is here a witness. It does not constitute a threat. Del Toro's haunting is clear: the monster is a symptom of human violence. And if it comes into the world, it is because a tyrant, a scientist, a soldier, a father—has created it. It is impossible not to read this work in the light of psychoanalysis, insofar as what del Toro stages is nothing other than the rejected son, the sacrificed son, the impossible child, condemned to permanent misunderstanding. One thinks of course of Lacan and the foreclosure of the father's name. It is the figure of the child without place, crushed by the deadening paternal Law, the one that knows not love but only performance, discipline, or inheritance. It is also difficult not to think of Plato's Cave. The creature dares emerge from the shadows to seek humanity, but those who see it murder it. Del Toro is in fantasy cinema, but he is deeply rooted in his time and in reality. He tells us, through his fabulous images, the horror in which we live daily—as if he were delivering nothing less than a tragic meditation on our era. More than ever today, the world is filled with monster-makers and monster-traffickers: populists, fascists, fear engineers, scientists without ethics, gnostics of all kinds, propagandists who transform peoples into machines of hatred. The monster now doesn't even need to be created in a laboratory: it is manufactured through discourse, manipulation, social networks, closed identities, resentment, and purifying fantasy. Even artificially now, and always with our agreement, our legitimation, our participation. Strangely, the final season of the series Stranger Things seems to evolve around this same theme… In this sense, Guillermo del Toro is much more a political thinker, a dark prophet than a filmmaker—similar to what Cohen already announced in The Future in 1990, namely that humanity is in danger. But not because of monsters, but because of those who live off the need to manufacture them through hatred, violence, humiliation, exclusion. Del Toro whispers an urgent truth to us: it is time to look monsters in the eye. That is, to conduct our own examination of conscience before it's too late, to win within ourselves the most important battle: our last chance to remain human. So we do not all end up, like little Ophelia from the Pan's Labyrinth .