The Novel vs... this fetishistic fraud #frankenstein
Mary Shelly's original creature is so terrifyingly grotesque and hideously inhuman in appearance that it shocks otherwise kindly folk into an immediate horrified state of evoked revulsion and defensively panicked violence. Not allure kinky women's curiosities.
The monstrosity becomes sadistically bitter and diabolically vindictive, precisely because he is so vehemently ostracized from any human pity, let alone the companionship it comes to intensely covet and crave.
It isn't an immortal adonis. It isn't this perpetual innocent. Nor an unkillable cherubic homoerotic naif, suffering scars of systematic trauma from a cycle of patriarchal abuse.
This disgraceful movie adaptation subverts all the plot and character motivations, dynamics, and relationships - to wholly undermine the author's intentions.
For those that don't know, the novel's actual story is essentially about a festering inconsolable regret for the intoxicating obsession of hubristic passion that hastily lead a young ingenious student to pursue wielding intellectual prowess over the mortality that God demands of nature. A folly that ultimately unleashes a whirlwind of irreparable havoc and dreadful repercussions upon a well raised good man's very decent and unassuming loved ones. Because for a frenzied time of youthful euphoric discovery, he rambunctiously lost his prudence for purpose and reverence for providential design as being a sacred system of symbiosis, not to be meddled lightly with.
This perspective coupled with the monster's cultivated understanding of morality and deliberate decision to reject mercy and choose spite for existing in a world that rejects it on face value, and therefore seethes and plots to punish its reckless creator - which it never knew, except from consequential resentment. It's a tragic cautionary tale about not allowing appetite to triumph over ethic.
Certain filmmakers with a propensity for flatulence, desperately failed the summery assignment and totally abandoned sight of the thematic point, so they could instead pander and project their own pathetic pathology into its gnarled narrative neutering and cater to their own caustic corruption. In no way is this decadent vanity project from Guillermo Del Toro a faithful representation of Mary Shelly's thoughtful insight and invention regarding the pertinent imperative to formidably fortify moral fortitude.
Geronimo Jehoshaphat
The Novel vs... this fetishistic fraud
#frankenstein
Mary Shelly's original creature is so terrifyingly grotesque and hideously inhuman in appearance that it shocks otherwise kindly folk into an immediate horrified state of evoked revulsion and defensively panicked violence. Not allure kinky women's curiosities.
The monstrosity becomes sadistically bitter and diabolically vindictive, precisely because he is so vehemently ostracized from any human pity, let alone the companionship it comes to intensely covet and crave.
It isn't an immortal adonis. It isn't this perpetual innocent. Nor an unkillable cherubic homoerotic naif, suffering scars of systematic trauma from a cycle of patriarchal abuse.
This disgraceful movie adaptation subverts all the plot and character motivations, dynamics, and relationships - to wholly undermine the author's intentions.
For those that don't know, the novel's actual story is essentially about a festering inconsolable regret for the intoxicating obsession of hubristic passion that hastily lead a young ingenious student to pursue wielding intellectual prowess over the mortality that God demands of nature. A folly that ultimately unleashes a whirlwind of irreparable havoc and dreadful repercussions upon a well raised good man's very decent and unassuming loved ones. Because for a frenzied time of youthful euphoric discovery, he rambunctiously lost his prudence for purpose and reverence for providential design as being a sacred system of symbiosis, not to be meddled lightly with.
This perspective coupled with the monster's cultivated understanding of morality and deliberate decision to reject mercy and choose spite for existing in a world that rejects it on face value, and therefore seethes and plots to punish its reckless creator - which it never knew, except from consequential resentment. It's a tragic cautionary tale about not allowing appetite to triumph over ethic.
Certain filmmakers with a propensity for flatulence, desperately failed the summery assignment and totally abandoned sight of the thematic point, so they could instead pander and project their own pathetic pathology into its gnarled narrative neutering and cater to their own caustic corruption. In no way is this decadent vanity project from Guillermo Del Toro a faithful representation of Mary Shelly's thoughtful insight and invention regarding the pertinent imperative to formidably fortify moral fortitude.
An abomination in deed.
1 week ago | [YT] | 0