Culture

A quick glance at the developing cultural and artistic landscape in the Gulf countries reveals the colossal resources devoted to a wide range of often lavish and avant-garde projects aimed at promoting art and culture, on bases that may vary from one country to another. A similar enthusiasm is evident across the board, reflecting a shared desire for openness and exchange with the world of culture and art. All of these projects undoubtedly serve to promote a kind of "cultural diplomacy"—if one can call it that—and to boost the cultural influence of these countries on an international scale. However, it would be a mistake to reduce the achievements already made and those already planned to a mere marketing exercise. Beyond the somewhat grandiose scale of the projects underway, other, far more important motivations are at play.

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.