¿Cuándo cerraron las ventanas?
Spanish version
¿Cuándo cerraron las ventanas?
¿Y cuándo no vi más el sol? Las nubes se oscurecieron, oscurecieron mi visión, mis perspectivas, mi entorno, aun mi ego.
¿Qué día fue ese que ya olvidé, ese día que no llovía, pero sentía el agua helada resbalar por mis hombros, ese día que los pájaros no se levantaron temprano ni cantaron?
¿Qué día fue, qué mes del año? No lo recuerdo. La ciencia dice que tendemos a olvidar lo que nos duele y eso dolió.
¿Será que el dolor se relaciona con ventanas cerradas o puertas cerradas?
Será que los dolores ocurren un día que parece que llueve, pero no llueve, un día, un día que se olvida, un mes del año que se olvida o una temporada que jamás existió.
Dolió y el dolor cercena, come poco a poco, y mi cuerpo no se defendió, solo olvidó el día cuando cerraron las ventanas y no pude ver el sol.
When did they close the windows?
English version
When did they close the windows?
And when did I last see the sun? The clouds grew dark, darkening my sight, my prospects, my surroundings, and even my ego.
What day was that, now forgotten? That day, when it wasn’t raining, I felt icy water sliding down my shoulders. That day, the birds did not rise early nor sing.
What day was it? What month of the year? I don’t remember. Science says we tend to forget what hurts us, and that hurt.
Could it be that pain is tied to closed windows or locked doors?
Could it be that pains happen on a day that seems like rain, yet it doesn’t rain? A day forgotten, a month of the year forgotten, or a season that never was.
It hurts, and pain gnaws away, bit by bit. And my body did not fight back… It only forgot the day they closed the windows, and I could no longer see the sun.
Film Review: Frankenstein (2025)
(Guillermo Del Toro)
By Pat Orozco Munoz
Having watched Guillermo del Toro's Frankenstein (2025) on Netflix, I was immediately drawn into yet another brilliant work by this director. Del Toro's signature style is evident from the opening scene, reflecting his ongoing fascination with both the monstrous and the human. In true Del Toro fashion, the film goes beyond the typical gothic horror framework to explore profound existential themes, portraying the Creature's (Jacob Elordi) journey as a blend of life, death, pain, and hope.
This is not simply another adaptation of Mary Shelley’s original novel (1818); it is a poignant and visceral exploration of the existential divide between life and death. It bridges this schism with a painful yet hopeful quest for self-acceptance, leaving the viewer with more than just a cinematic afterglow but a deep sense of spiritual inquiry.
The film establishes its central dialectic through Del Toro’s archetypal visual style, a "visual baroque" where each frame is a meticulously composed canvas of shadow, texture, and symbolic weight (Wood, 2021). This aesthetic physicalizes the film’s philosophical core. The Creature, brought to life through a breathtaking motion-capture performance, is not merely a being of stitched flesh but a walking embodiment of this duality. His animation is a miracle, defying death, yet his existence is defined by the pain of his origins. Here, the film makes its most compelling argument: the true horror lies not in the act of creation but in the subsequent abandonment. The narrative meticulously reveals the psychological impact of this rejection.
The Creature’s pain is palpable, not the simplistic pain of a monstrous birth, but the chronic agony of loneliness and the deep wound inflicted by a lack of love, echoing the othering found in Mary Shelley's original text. Del Toro portrays this isolation through hauntingly beautiful compositions, consistently placing the Creature on the periphery, a spectator to a humanity he cannot join. This aligns with Shelley’s exploration of the creature’s plight, where he laments, “I was benevolent and good; misery made me a fiend” (Shelley, 1818). One striking image is the Creature observing familial intimacy through a rain-streaked window, his reflection fractured and ghost-like. He embodies Byung-Chul Han’s argument that “the Other, who is disappearing, is being replaced by the Same… leading to a hell of the Same” (Han, 2022). The Creature’s torment stems from his radical Otherness in a world that refuses to accept him, making the film’s true horror the devastating consequences of denied connection rather than mere appearance.
The Creature’s journey is not a straightforward quest for revenge but a circular return to the source of his pain: his fractured relationship with his creator, Victor Frankenstein (Oscar Isaac). The film culminates in a climactic confrontation, portraying the encounter not as a physical battle but as a quiet, devastating dialogue. This pivotal moment shifts the narrative towards the raw, unmediated presence of two broken beings facing each other. This moment of mutual recognition, or the tragic absence thereof, forms the film’s ethical and emotional high point.
The possibility of healing comes not from external love but from the agonizing acceptance of one's own story, complete with scars and imperfections. Healing is possible only when we accept ourselves. This is where Del Toro’s work resonates academically. The concept of healing through self-acceptance, rather than assimilation, parallels the Jungian process of individuation, where wholeness is achieved by integrating the shadow self into the conscious personality (Jung, 1959). The Creature’s stitched-together body becomes a metaphor for the fragmented psyche, and his salvation begins when he stops seeking his creator’s approval and turns inward to embrace his own being.
Del Toro, a master of the modern fairy tale, understands that the most potent monsters reflect ourselves. His Frankenstein is a monumental achievement, blending visual artistry with profound literary intelligence. The film confronts grief, guiding us through its corridors toward the essential hope that beyond pain, we can find the courage to be wholly ourselves.
Ultimately, the film’s haunting message is that acceptance leads us back to the universal core of our shared, fragile, imperfect, and beautiful humanity. Wholeness is not about who we are made to be but about embracing who we inherently are.
References
- Han, B. (2022). The Expulsion of the Other. Polity Press.
- Jung, C.G. (1959). The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious.
- Shelley, M. (1818). Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus. Lackington, Hughes, Harding, Mavor & Jones.
- Wood, A. (2021). The Gothic Vision of Guillermo del Toro: Myth, Monstrosity, and Melancholy. University of Texas Press.