Where did you feel for the ‘child’ and where did you feel for the ‘parent’?
frankenstein, big screen, mellow saturday. demir asleep halfway through (predictable, honestly), so it’s just can and me getting quietly flattened by the movie’s sharpest ache: the father wound.
here’s the part that stung: for the ‘child’—that bottomless, wild hope. stitched together out of scraps and somehow expected to just be whole. reaching for warmth and getting cold philosophy instead. the raw hunger to be seen, named, claimed. when the creature’s eyes look up and all he wants is not to be abandoned? yeah, that got me.
for the ‘parent’—the terror of what you’ve made. the urge to run from your own creation, afraid you’ll wreck it more by staying. the silence of a parent who’s in way over their head, paralyzed by regret but unable to show up. i felt for the one who built a life he couldn’t love, and for how lonely that must be.
the movie doesn’t tidy up the mess. it lingers where most stories flinch: the space where hurt isn’t clean and nobody’s just a villain. in the end, it’s about longing—for repair, for recognition, for someone to say “i’m sorry. i’m here.” some of us napped. some of us left the theater a little stitched, a little haunted, but also, maybe, seen.
