After nearly two decades of whispering sweet nothings to Mary Shelley’s corpse, Guillermo del Toro has finally exhumed his long-gestating dream project, Frankenstein, and stitched it together with a cast that reads like my fantasy dinner party: Oscar Isaac, Jacob Elordi, Mia Goth, Christoph Waltz, and Charles Dance. The film premiered at the Venice International Film Festival on August 30, and will lurch into select theaters on October 17 before unleashing itself globally on Netflix on November 71.

So, what’s the verdict? Critics are calling it “visually stunning,” “emotionally charged,” and “a feast for the eyes.” Jacob Elordi, who plays The Creature, is getting serious praise for bringing a quiet, soulful intensity to the role, while Oscar Isaac’s Victor Frankenstein is described as “enormously fun to watch” as he descends into madness with prosthetics, a fake leg, and an ego that could rival Voldemort’s.

From what I’ve read, Del Toro’s signature style is all over this production. Think blood-stained tulle, impossible dresses in the snow, and cellars that drip with existential dread. The film’s 149-minute runtime has been called “oppressive,” but also “indulgent,” which is just another way of saying del Toro didn’t cut a single frame of his monster baby. Some critics are swooning over the lush romantic melodrama and gruesome bloodletting, while others are side-eyeing the lack of suspense and tonal whiplash. One reviewer even said it “roars to life but forgets to breathe,” which sounds like every one of my ex-boyfriends.

The internet, naturally, is swirling with hot takes. Some fans are calling it the most beautiful Frankenstein adaptation ever, while others are clutching their Karloff DVDs and muttering about “campy reboots.” But even the haters admit that del Toro’s love for monsters is palpable, and that this version of Frankenstein is more tragedy than horror; a philosophical reflection on what it means to be human, and who the real monster is (spoiler: it’s probably us).

If you’re hoping for a faithful retelling, you’ll get it with a twist. Del Toro cleaves close to Shelley’s original but injects his own obsessions: war trauma, hubris, forgiveness, and the catharsis of monstrosity. The Creature even gets to narrate his own story, which is a lightning-flash moment that jolts the film into unexpected emotional territory.

Bottom line? Frankenstein is a gothic fever dream wrapped in velvet and stitched with sorrow. It’s not perfect, but it’s passionate, weird, and unapologetically del Toro.

And really, what more could we ask for?