yusufpiskin

Daniel Day-Lewis steps into the frame, the air already thick with sound the haunting melody of "Black Sabbath - Solitude" plays in the background. Then, Sean Bean enters through the door... These are moments where minutes pass without a single line of dialogue, yet the immersive gravity of Black Sabbath's atmosphere utterly captivates the viewer.

This production, for which Brad Pitt readily took on a producing role, stands out thanks to the narrative penned by the Father-Son Lewis duo and the vision of cinematographer Ben Fordesman, who has truly exceeded his own creative limits.

Yes, it is an exhausting film, and yes, it is not for everyone. But cinema lost its essential magic precisely when it became preoccupied with crafting "films for everyone." This difficult nature only reinforces the film's intrinsic value.

The musical choices are nothing short of brilliant, a genuinely staggering success. And then there is our Queen: Samantha Morton... a performance for the ages.

Long live Ireland.

I've long lost count of how many times I've written about Mary Shelley and Frankenstein, or how many different editions, spanning centuries, and how many formats of this story sit in my collection, from Blu-rays to DVDs and VHS tapes.

It seems Netflix cannot get enough of this tale, as it has now delivered yet another adaptation, following Çagan Irmak's Yaratilan.

When Shelley first wrote the novel, the conservative circles of her time tore her apart, offended both by its religious implications and by the simple fact that a woman had dared to write it. Ever since, Frankenstein has lived on through countless adaptations built upon misinterpretations.

For reasons I still cannot grasp, Victor Frankenstein has been portrayed since the nineteenth century as a proud man infected with the God Complex. Yet, as the first act of this new film carefully illustrates, Victor's attempt to create life is in truth the product of a deep Oedipal conflict. He flees from paternal authority only to seek shelter in his mother, who is then taken from him.

Guillermo del Toro makes a smart decision by entrusting the role to the young Canadian actor Christian Convery. Convery clearly understands the subtext and delivers a sensitive and layered performance. In exploring Victor's psyche this deeply, the only other adaptation that comes close is the series Penny Dreadful.

Unfortunately, from that point on, the film tumbles downhill.

Oscar Isaac's performance is inexplicably theatrical, drenched in Shakespearean excess that feels painfully out of place, as if he is declaiming on stage rather than acting for the camera. Compare this with Kenneth Branagh's 1994 adaptation, where Branagh, himself one of the world's foremost Shakespeare authorities, offered a genuinely cinematic performance. Even Benedict Cumberbatch and Jonny Lee Miller, who alternated the roles of Victor and the Creature in the 2011 stage production, managed to find cinematic depth within their theatrical space.

That is the point, after all. Theater and cinema are entirely different disciplines. And honestly, Oscar Isaac was the wrong choice from the start.

Then there is Christoph Waltz as Henrich Harlander, a character whose purpose in the story is so vague it might as well not exist. Jacob Elordi's Creature feels like a pale imitation, a lesser echo of the Ghost Engineer from Ridley Scott's Prometheus.

Despite Del Toro's insistence in interviews that the film was crafted with handmade artistry, the visual effects are distractingly artificial, marred by heavy computer graphics that betray that very claim. Alexandre Desplat's score, though I admire his work immensely, pulls the film away from its Gothic essence and into something resembling a whimsical Tim Burton fantasy. And cinematographer Dan Laustsen, usually a master of darkness and atmosphere, delivers overly polished, Dolby Vision-heavy images that look as if they were shot in front of a digital green void.

It is baffling. Just a few years ago, Del Toro reimagined Pinocchio amid the Spanish Civil War, giving us a stop-motion masterpiece both faithful to its source and freshly original. How could the same filmmaker make such misguided choices here.

Del Toro claims he was inspired by Frank Darabont's screenplay and Kenneth Branagh's direction, suggesting this film was born from that influence. I never thought I would say this about a director of his brilliance, but I suspect he did not truly understand the 1994 adaptation either.

No need to go on. At over two hours long, a runtime I would gladly cut in half, this film never captures even a fraction of the soul, artistry, or psychological power found in a single forty minute episode of Penny Dreadful.

I genuinely struggle to comprehend the wave of negative critiques that sometimes drown out films of this caliber.

The cast alone reads like a fantastical roll call. We have John Glover, whose performances as indelible figures like Lionel Luthor and The Riddler are etched into our cultural memory; the legendary Robert Englund, who plunged us into the depths of horror as Freddy Krueger and whose work we universally admire; and, for my money, the actor who delivered the most nuanced portrayal of Bruce Wayne, David Mazouz.

Adding further gravity to the ensemble are formidable talents such as Lou Diamond Phillips, Chris Mulkey, and Lacey Chabert (the voice of Zatanna Zatara).

It's an alignment of stars-a cinematic gathering that feels almost like the DC universe convening under the dark banner of a horror anthology.

Glover, in particular, delivers a masterclass, channeling the focused intensity reminiscent of his Barter Theatre and Beverly Hills Playhouse days.

As I hunt for a physical copy of this anthology to grace my own collection, I would urge you, especially as the shadows lengthen during the Halloween season, to give this film a serious look.