A Glimpse into the Origins of a Master Filmmaker
Guillermo del Toro’s long-awaited Frankenstein has already become one of the most celebrated films of 2025. With Oscar Isaac, Jacob Elordi, and Mia Goth bringing fresh life to Mary Shelley’s mythic tragedy, del Toro’s newest work cements his status as one of cinema’s most distinctive storytellers. Yet more than three decades before he reached this milestone, del Toro introduced himself to the world with a modestly budgeted, deeply personal vampire tale titled Cronos.
Revisiting Cronos reveals a filmmaker already obsessed with the fragility of humanity, the pain of transformation, and the blurred boundary between life and death. Its emotional core, constructed through small, intimate moments rather than spectacle, anticipates the artistic ambitions del Toro would refine through The Devil’s Backbone, Pan’s Labyrinth, Crimson Peak, The Shape of Water, and ultimately Frankenstein. The release of his 2025 adaptation offers the perfect moment to look back at the film that started it all, a work that deserves the same level of recognition as the celebrated gothic dramas that followed.
The Birth of a Visionary
When Cronos premiered in 1993, it arrived during a time when Mexican cinema was gaining international traction but still lagged behind Hollywood in resources. Del Toro spent years crafting the script and creating the mechanical design of the Cronos device. Working with a low budget and limited effects technology, he relied on atmosphere, practical craftsmanship, and emotional storytelling.
Despite these limitations, the film stunned critics. It won multiple Ariel Awards, announcing del Toro as an undeniable new voice in horror filmmaking. Plus, it even starred a pre-Sons of Anarchy Ron Perlman (a future del Toro frequent collaborator) in one of the lead roles, as the film had dialogue in both Spanish and English.
Though Cronos was celebrated in film circles, it never crossed fully into mainstream horror consciousness. Released during an era dominated by slasher films and supernatural thrillers, its slow and melancholic tone clashed with commercial expectations. Instead of leaning into standard vampire tropes, del Toro stripped the mythology down to its bones. He transformed vampirism into a biological curse driven by an ancient, insect-like machine that injected life through parasitic mechanisms.
The approach was unique, almost literary, more concerned with decay and addiction than bloodsucking theatrics. Over time, Cronos gained a small but devoted cult following, especially among genre scholars and fans of del Toro’s later work.
A Tragic Fairy Tale
At its core, the story follows Jesus Gris, an elderly antique dealer who discovers a golden device created by a sixteenth-century alchemist. When Jesus activates it, the device embeds itself into his skin, granting renewed youth and vitality while gradually enslaving him to its hunger. As the device reshapes him physically and psychologically, he finds himself hunted by a dying businessman and his brutish nephew, played by Ron Perlman. Much of the film’s emotional resonance emerges through Jesus’ relationship with his granddaughter Aurora, who witnesses his transformation with a quiet, heartbreaking understanding. The narrative unfolds like a tragic fairy tale, one that explores mortality not through spectacle but through the sorrow of losing one’s humanity.
The result was a haunting, meditative horror film that established del Toro’s signature style. Cronos was the first demonstration of his ability to merge gothic atmosphere, intimate character work, and philosophical reflections on life and death. Though its impact was quiet, its influence on del Toro’s future projects is unmistakable. Everything he would later become can be traced back to the shadows of this film.
The Foundation of a Cinematic Legacy
When examining Guillermo del Toro’s expansive and critically acclaimed body of work, Cronos reveals itself as the artistic foundation beneath every film that followed. Long before The Devil’s Backbone or Pan’s Labyrinth earned him international acclaim, del Toro was already crafting narratives that blended the supernatural with the profoundly human.
He approached monsters not as antagonistic archetypes but as mirrors of human vulnerability. This worldview became a defining characteristic of his filmography, reappearing in nearly every project he has undertaken.
In Cronos, del Toro explored themes that he would later refine with greater scale and sophistication. The concept of a sympathetic monster, for instance, emerges through Jesus Gris, whose transformation into a vampiric being is tragic rather than horrifying. Del Toro would revisit this trope in Hellboy, The Shape of Water, and even Pacific Rim, where creatures and outcasts possess inner beauty and emotional depth.
In these films, the monstrous becomes an expression of otherness, a metaphor for societal rejection or personal suffering. Jesus Gris, like many of his other future characters, represents a figure caught between worlds, longing for connection even as his body betrays him.
The film also exemplifies del Toro’s fascination with the physicality of horror. The Cronos device, with its insectile mechanisms and organic clicking, foreshadows the intricate practical effects and creature designs that would become del Toro’s hallmark. His dedication to tactile detail, often achieved through animatronics and hand-built props, reflects an early commitment to physical realism.
This emphasis on tangible design appears again in the mechanical constructs of Pacific Rim, the elaborate gothic architecture of Crimson Peak, and the alchemical machinery in Pinocchio.
Looking across del Toro’s career, Cronos emerges not simply as his first film but as the thesis statement of his artistic identity. Its emotional intimacy set the tone for the deeply personal stories he would pursue. Its gothic sensibilities foretold his love of dark romanticism. Its tragic monster laid the groundwork for the empathetic approach he brings to every creature he creates.
Understanding Cronos therefore means understanding the evolution of del Toro’s filmmaking, as each subsequent film can be viewed as an expansion, refinement, or reimagining of the ideas that first appeared in this quiet, beautifully crafted debut.
From Cronos to Frankenstein
Guillermo del Toro’s Frankenstein represents the culmination of more than twenty-five years of artistic fascination, and Cronos is its earliest ancestor. Del Toro has repeatedly described Mary Shelley’s novel as a favorite and the story that defined his relationship with monsters from childhood onward.
Although he spent decades attempting to adapt it, he waited until 2024 to finally commit, ensuring he could approach the material with complete creative freedom.
The result is a 2025 gothic drama that combines operatic emotion with intimate psychological storytelling.
To understand why Cronos is essential to del Toro’s Frankenstein, one must look closely at the themes that both works share. At the heart of each story is a tragic figure created or reshaped through unnatural means, whose suffering invites the audience’s empathy. The Creature in Frankenstein, portrayed by Jacob Elordi, continues del Toro’s tradition of imbuing monsters with emotional complexity.
Much like Jesus Gris, the Creature is caught in a cycle of pain, longing, and enforced loneliness. His immense physical power contrasts with his profound vulnerability, a tension that del Toro has been exploring since 1993.
Del Toro’s Frankenstein does more than adapt Shelley’s narrative. It expands it in ways that reflect his entire filmography. The film is structured into two major arcs: Victor’s tale and the Creature’s tale. This dual perspective aligns with del Toro’s belief that monsters deserve to be heard, understood, and dignified.
In Pan’s Labyrinth, this perspective emerges through the way the supernatural world becomes an emotional refuge for the protagonist. In The Shape of Water, a mute woman and an amphibious creature develop a shared voice through connection. In Frankenstein, the Creature’s point of view becomes central to the film’s emotional resonance.
The film’s depiction of Victor Frankenstein also echoes del Toro’s earlier explorations of flawed fathers, misguided creators, and the consequences of ambition. Victor’s abusive father, his grief-driven scientific obsession, and his violent disciplinary methods echo del Toro’s recurring interest in the destructive side of authority.
Whether it is the sadistic Captain Vidal in Pan’s Labyrinth or the manipulative figures in Nightmare Alley, del Toro often portrays systems of power as corruptive forces that fracture the lives of those beneath them. Victor, played by Oscar Isaac, becomes a tragic embodiment of this dynamic, both tyrant and victim.
Even the visual elements of Frankenstein draw a direct lineage from Cronos. Del Toro’s love of gothic architecture appears in both films. His fascination with decaying bodies and transformative wounds traces back to Jesus Gris’s peeling skin. His use of practical effects and intricate creature design continues a tradition that began with the Cronos device itself.
Del Toro’s Frankenstein world is shaped by European landscapes, Catholic undertones, and a sense of melancholic grandeur. These artistic choices were first expressed in Cronos, expanded in Crimson Peak, and finally realized at full scale in Frankenstein.
