TheCynicReels
jul 2007 se unió
Distintivos3
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Reseñas321
Clasificación de TheCynicReels
There are adaptations of Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus - and then there is Guillermo del Toro's Frankenstein. Rarely has cinema offered such a hauntingly poetic and profoundly humane meditation on creation and consequence. It is a work of art that feels both eternal and startlingly new, stitched together with beauty, intellect, and blood. To say it's the best version since the 1931 original is not hyperbole - it is simple recognition.
Del Toro approaches Mary Shelley's novel not as a horror story, but as a tragedy of love and loss. He understands, as few filmmakers ever have, that the true terror of Frankenstein lies not in the monster's appearance but in the mirror he holds up to his maker. Every frame is crafted with painterly precision; the Gothic grandeur is unmistakable, but beneath the splendor runs an aching tenderness. One feels, finally, the full sorrow of Shelley's vision - that the pursuit of godhood leaves both creator and creation desolate.
Jacob Elordi's Creature is magnificent. His performance trembles between rage and heartbreak, reminding us that monstrosity can wear the face of innocence. Opposite him, Oscar Isaac delivers a Victor Frankenstein consumed by genius and self-loathing in equal measure. Their shared scenes crackle with tragic inevitability, as though the two men are locked in a cosmic argument about what it means to be human. Mia Goth, too, lends her ethereal unease to the ensemble, grounding the story's moral gravity with a pulse of empathy.
Visually, the film is a marvel. Del Toro's world is sculpted in shadow and candlelight - reds that bleed into golds, cold blues that whisper of death. The camera moves as though in mourning, tracing faces and ruins alike with reverence. The music, subtle and elegiac, feels less like accompaniment than like the echo of a ghost still pleading to be heard. It is cinema as requiem.
Some may complain of the film's unhurried rhythm, its indulgent pauses and deliberate silences. But these are not excesses - they are elegies. This Frankenstein is not content to frighten; it wishes to move, to provoke, to make us think about the cost of creation itself. It is a film of terrible beauty - and, I'd argue, the definitive telling of Shelley's immortal myth.
Masterfully done, beautifully acted, and written with poetic restraint - Frankenstein is not just another adaptation. It is the resurrection of the soul of the story itself.
Del Toro approaches Mary Shelley's novel not as a horror story, but as a tragedy of love and loss. He understands, as few filmmakers ever have, that the true terror of Frankenstein lies not in the monster's appearance but in the mirror he holds up to his maker. Every frame is crafted with painterly precision; the Gothic grandeur is unmistakable, but beneath the splendor runs an aching tenderness. One feels, finally, the full sorrow of Shelley's vision - that the pursuit of godhood leaves both creator and creation desolate.
Jacob Elordi's Creature is magnificent. His performance trembles between rage and heartbreak, reminding us that monstrosity can wear the face of innocence. Opposite him, Oscar Isaac delivers a Victor Frankenstein consumed by genius and self-loathing in equal measure. Their shared scenes crackle with tragic inevitability, as though the two men are locked in a cosmic argument about what it means to be human. Mia Goth, too, lends her ethereal unease to the ensemble, grounding the story's moral gravity with a pulse of empathy.
Visually, the film is a marvel. Del Toro's world is sculpted in shadow and candlelight - reds that bleed into golds, cold blues that whisper of death. The camera moves as though in mourning, tracing faces and ruins alike with reverence. The music, subtle and elegiac, feels less like accompaniment than like the echo of a ghost still pleading to be heard. It is cinema as requiem.
Some may complain of the film's unhurried rhythm, its indulgent pauses and deliberate silences. But these are not excesses - they are elegies. This Frankenstein is not content to frighten; it wishes to move, to provoke, to make us think about the cost of creation itself. It is a film of terrible beauty - and, I'd argue, the definitive telling of Shelley's immortal myth.
Masterfully done, beautifully acted, and written with poetic restraint - Frankenstein is not just another adaptation. It is the resurrection of the soul of the story itself.
There are two possible approaches to a series like King & Conqueror. The first is to surrender to the spectacle: the clang of swords, the shimmer of chainmail, the restless shuffle of thrones. Taken on these terms, the production does its work capably. Norton and Coster-Waldau lend weight to their roles, the set design evokes the damp earth of England, and the score strives toward grandeur. In that sense, it is watchable and occasionally stirring.
The second approach is to ask whether the series is, in fact, what it claims to be-a historical drama. And here, things falter. One need not be a specialist in eleventh-century England to notice that certain creative choices are less about the past than about present fashions. The high nobility of the Anglo-Saxons were a specific, traceable people, their lineage tied to the North Sea world, their halls and laws distinctly of their time. The series, however, prefers a broader and more "inclusive" palette. This may satisfy some contemporary expectations, but it does little to illuminate what that world actually was.
The result is less historical drama than historical allegory: the year 1066 rewritten as if it were 2025. This would be forgivable if the real story lacked power. But it does not. Treachery, invasion, and a king struck down on the field of Hastings provide all the drama one could ask for. To overlay this with modern sensibilities is, in a way, to patronize the audience-assuming they cannot be gripped by history as it actually occurred.
By all means, enjoy King & Conqueror as an evening's diversion. Just do not mistake it for history. Those who know the past will recognize the liberties taken; those who do not may come away thinking that the BBC has faithfully shown them 1066. It has not.
The second approach is to ask whether the series is, in fact, what it claims to be-a historical drama. And here, things falter. One need not be a specialist in eleventh-century England to notice that certain creative choices are less about the past than about present fashions. The high nobility of the Anglo-Saxons were a specific, traceable people, their lineage tied to the North Sea world, their halls and laws distinctly of their time. The series, however, prefers a broader and more "inclusive" palette. This may satisfy some contemporary expectations, but it does little to illuminate what that world actually was.
The result is less historical drama than historical allegory: the year 1066 rewritten as if it were 2025. This would be forgivable if the real story lacked power. But it does not. Treachery, invasion, and a king struck down on the field of Hastings provide all the drama one could ask for. To overlay this with modern sensibilities is, in a way, to patronize the audience-assuming they cannot be gripped by history as it actually occurred.
By all means, enjoy King & Conqueror as an evening's diversion. Just do not mistake it for history. Those who know the past will recognize the liberties taken; those who do not may come away thinking that the BBC has faithfully shown them 1066. It has not.
