I finally saw Guillermo del Toro’s Frankenstein, which is streaming on Netflix after a brief theatrical release. And I was astounded at what a mess it is. There’s an occasional gleam of beauty and liveliness in this inert mass of scenes, which promises a more faithful adaptation of Mary Shelley’s original novel. But otherwise the film itself is like the unholy creation most people imagine when they think of Frankenstein’s monster — galvanized dead matter, crudely stitched and bolted together. It’s all inherently pathetic and repulsive.

Which is ironic, given the beauteous “monster” at the center of del Toro’s adaptation, played by ultrahandsome heartthrob Jacob Elordi. Once again, we’ve got a powerful monster of classic horror reenvisioned onscreen as somebody’s dreamy boyfriend. He resembles a seven-foot-tall blue-marble statue, with a certain delineation of muscles that recalls old anatomical drawings all of which only further eroticize this dreamboat. After his shocking birth, depicted as something like a newborn baby agog at the world, we’ve got the Creature as sensitive emo guy tenderly petting mice and gazing with wonder at the sky. This portrayal is all part of del Toro’s identification with and idolization of the Creature, of whom he says, “That is my Jesus. That is my patron saint.”

His Frankenstein has been heralded by mixed reviews, though some of them ecstatically proclaim, “It’s the film del Toro was born to make!” Which is just repeating what del Toro has been telling interviewers for years now, letting everyone know that since early childhood, he’s been obsessed by Shelley’s 1818 novel Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus as well as the legendary 1931 James Whale adaptation which first brought us the iconic flat-topped and neck-bolted monster played famously by Boris Karloff.