Loving the Monster: Purity, Fear, and Empathy in del Toro’s Cinema

In the tradition of horror cinema, monsters are often admired for their power, violence and unknowability.

Written by:
Amirreza Fakhri and Fatemeh Shahbandeh  

In her book Purity and Danger, Mary Douglas has a theory called “matter in the wrong place.” She explains how people in different cultures construct concepts of purity and impurity through the ordering of the world around them. According to Douglas, what we call “dirty” is actually something that has fallen out of its natural place. Dirt on the ground is normal, but on clothing it becomes pollution; the body is natural within its skin, but anything that comes out of it is considered a sign of transgression and threat. Therefore, every cultural system, in order to maintain order, establishes boundaries between dichotomies: clean and unclean, man and woman, man and animal, life and death.

If we generalize this view to Guillermo del Toro's cinema (as many film theorists have done), his monsters can be seen as “matter in the wrong place” — creatures that challenge the boundaries between human and nonhuman, natural and supernatural, beautiful and ugly.

Yet del Toro sees this disorder not as threatening but as beautiful and liberating. Rather than being symbols of fear, his monsters are mirrors that reveal the fragility and artificiality of systems that regard purity, normality, and conformity to cultural norms as the only true form of humanity. By giving these creatures emotional depth, he transforms the horror/fantasy genre into a genre of empathy, asking the viewer to love them instead of fear them.

The tragedy of del Toro's monsters is that they are never truly understood. In Frankenstein, del Toro uses this familiar metaphor to show that when man thinks of himself as the creator but fails to understand the responsibility of creation, the result is not the birth of salvation but the birth of a new monster — and that in a world where even its original creators have shied away from answering for the fate of their creatures.

Frankenstein's creature is one of the most recognizable figures in the history of the walking dead and Gothic literature — a wandering being who, rather than embodying fear, symbolizes human suffering and loneliness. In the tradition of horror cinema, monsters are often admired for their power, violence and unknowability. The audience enjoys encountering them, because, in the form of a threat, they experience their imagination.

Frankenstein, however, is not really scary but rather heartwarming and sad. In most scenes, the audience feels empathy and compassion for him. This simple-hearted creature is the victim of violence and judgment before he can become a dangerous being. Typically, by eliminating exaggeration in horror cinema and focusing on the human and even angelic aspects of the creature, Guillermo del Toro makes the audience see themselves in the monster's shoes, creating an experience of silence and sadness.

Frankenstein, like Mary Shelley's original novel, is on the surface a story of creation and rebellion, but at its core it is a reflection of humanity and its corruption. The creature is still the embodiment of purity, understanding, and a kind of philosophical outlook, and his presence reveals the monster within humans: the malevolence, the externalism, the warlikeness, and the thirst for power that devours humans from within.

Meanwhile, the real monster is not him but Victor himself — a man whose behavior and speech clearly bear the color of fascism. As reflected in many of del Toro's works, from Pan's Labyrinth to The Devil's Backbone, such figures are “human beings who are civilized on the outside but savage on the inside.”

Jacob Elordi's performance as the Creature is one of the film's highlights. He creates a being who oscillates between suffering and innocence, faith and anger. Yet del Toro's take on the character becomes more of a symbol of messianic redemption and forgiveness than a questioning of his own existence and humanity.

Numerous visual allegories — from the altar-like lighting seen in Pan's Labyrinth to the creature's prayerful gestures — even the way the creature is brought to life in this work, are reminiscent of the image of Christ crucified: the creature stands with arms outstretched and legs pointing down as electricity enters the body through the head. This contrasts with previous versions, in which the creature was either submerged in water “like a mother's womb” or died while sleeping.

Although a religious reading is in keeping with the spirit of del Toro's worldview, the film may have lost some of the philosophical and questioning depth of the literary version and even films like Mary Shelley's Frankenstein (1994). In that narrative, the creature was a restless philosopher who questioned the world in search of meaning and identity. In del Toro's version, however, he becomes more of a holy figure who bears the burden of sin and forgiveness.

Victorian architecture with a modern take on Gothic is captivating. From the grand, weathered halls to the cold stone corridors, all are designed to feel as if they are set in a desolate, decaying world. This combination of grandeur and ruin is a familiar signature of del Toro's cinema — the same broken beauty he had previously perfected in Crimson Peak.

The film cleverly uses spatial design to convey its theme. This desolate, stony place is an allegory of the fate and destiny of someone who wants to be a god. Inside this palace, the image of Medusa on the wall of the creature's prison is a direct reference to the myth, with its deadly gaze, as if everything it looks at is frozen and doomed.

The lighting, as in other works, creates a world between reality and fantasy. In the scenes of the creature's presence in its prison, there is flowing water, a spiritual state in the diagonal arches and columns, and an opening of hope to the outside. It is as if it is a space for prayer.

By contrast, the atmosphere of Victor's laboratory — with its yellow lights, blood, and severed and dead limbs — reinforces the sense of decay, along with a deep downward pit that leads to death.

Del Toro's monster is a reflection of us: a human being cast out of society but still longing for love and understanding within. He is not an enemy but a mirror — a mirror that confronts the reader with their hidden face. While the heroes of romance novels are usually ideal men, some readers want to identify with a monster who is flawed, different, and in need of love — someone to be confronted with a love that arises from the desire to understand and accept.

In contemporary romantic narratives, this desire is a form of resistance to the dominant masculine model, and the monster, with all its ugliness and difference, is more honest than the men who wear the mask of civilization on their faces.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8aulMPhE12g