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"It's alive!" Well, barely. Guillermo del Toro's pointless adaptation of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein is Robert Eggers' Nosferatu all over again, a sumptuous but redundant retelling of a tale told 200 times too many. The writer/director has been trying to get this film made for three decades, and anyone familiar with his career knows of del Toro's fondness for monsters. But aside from his trademark over the top violence, del Toro has brought nothing new to the table here. His Frankenstein is twice as long as James Whale's and over an hour longer than Terence Fisher's, but it lacks the depth of either of those classics.
