Guillermo del Toro adaptations have consistently brought complex, emotionally charged stories to life, blending beauty with darkness in immersive ways. With his recent take on Frankenstein reaffirming his unique vision, it is time to consider which novels might provide the perfect canvas for his next cinematic journey.
The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafón: A Tale of Memory and Longing
The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafón captures many of the qualities that have defined Guillermo del Toro‘s storytelling. Taking place in postwar Barcelona, the novel follows a boy who stumbles upon a mysterious book by a nearly erased author. His search for answers to the author’s disappearance leads to a deeper exploration of memory, obsession, and the endurance of stories after their creators are gone.
This book almost seems tailored to del Toro’s longstanding preoccupation with the intersection of the sacred and the sinister, the divine and the haunted. The illuminated bookshops, rainswept alleys, and timeworn mansions of Barcelona possess the Gothic atmosphere that has become the director’s hallmark in films like Crimson Peak and Pan’s Labyrinth. The Cemetery of Forgotten Books, a labyrinthine sanctuary of lost stories, stands out as a location that would flourish under his visual imagination.
Zafón’s novel explores the perils and passions of creation, as well as the longing to preserve beauty and stories in a world that constantly seeks their destruction. Del Toro could make this adaptation his most personal yet, meditating on how storytelling is both a sacred and a dangerous act—a way to revive what is gone, but not forgotten. As an elegy to remembrance and love formed from longing, The Shadow of the Wind would deepen themes he addressed in Frankenstein and expand upon them in ways that only del Toro can.
Something Wicked This Way Comes by Ray Bradbury: The Nightmare Beneath Nostalgia
Ray Bradbury’s autumnal tale, Something Wicked This Way Comes, examines the fears and temptations of childhood through the lens of a sinister carnival’s arrival in a small town. The friendship between Will Halloway and Jim Nightshade, and their encounter with the enigmatic Mr. Dark, offer del Toro the perfect stage to revisit themes of innocence strained by encroaching darkness.
The blurred line between memory and nightmare that Bradbury cultivates would allow del Toro’s style—where nostalgia and dread entwine—to shine. In the director’s hands, the eeriness of the carnival, with its storm-lit canvas tents, haunted calliopes, and the pulse of forgotten memories, would come alive as visual poetry.
Central to Bradbury’s novel is a focus on the power of human connection and redemption—a son’s forgiveness and a father’s steadfast love. Del Toro’s cinema often dwells on the boundaries between monsters and miracles, and here he could turn Bradbury’s horror into something profoundly hopeful. His adaptation would become a moving parable about the pain and necessity of leaving childhood behind, as well as the quiet heroism required to face one’s fears and resist the temptation of forgetting the past too easily.
At the Mountains of Madness by H.P. Lovecraft: Awe at the Edge of the Universe
For years, At the Mountains of Madness remained one of del Toro’s most lusted-after projects, making Lovecraft’s polar epic a ghost among his unrealized works. This novella details an Antarctic expedition that uncovers fossilized remnants of an alien race, confronting explorers with truths that challenge their understanding of humanity’s place in the cosmos.
While Lovecraft’s vision is famously nihilistic, del Toro’s approach could bring a sense of humility and even grace to the unknown. The world the explorers walk into—a frozen city of impossible geometry, murals carved from ice, and the echoes of inhuman architects—would become wholly physical and tactile through del Toro’s mastery of practical effects and surreal set design. His adaptation would give life to Lovecraft’s Ancient Ones with awe and reverence, making monsters that are not simply objects of terror, but of profound wonder.
But beneath the spectacle lies something more personal: a meditation on creation itself. At the Mountains of Madness is Frankenstein magnified to a cosmic scale, a story of man discovering that he, too, was made by indifferent hands. In del Toro’s hands, it would not be a story about despair, but about humility and the trembling acceptance that beauty can exist even in the face of oblivion.
This text underlines why At the Mountains of Madness would resonate so deeply with del Toro: it’s not merely a descent into horror, but a story about the humility needed to face truths beyond understanding. Driven by empathy rather than terror, del Toro’s vision could transform cosmic dread into a contemplative cinematic odyssey.
The Hunchback of Notre Dame by Victor Hugo: Holiness and Horror Entwined
Victor Hugo’s The Hunchback of Notre Dame has the architectural grandeur and moral ambiguity that seem native to del Toro’s world. The tragic Quasimodo, shunned for his appearance, and the conflicted Claude Frollo, torn between twisted faith and dark obsession, occupy the kinds of liminal space del Toro explores so well.
With Notre Dame Cathedral as a centerpiece, del Toro could turn stone gargoyles into mournful guardians and illuminate stained glass with the hope and suffering of those beneath it. In his adaptation, the cathedral itself becomes a breathing entity, embodying both sanctuary and menace, shelter and condemnation.
The parallels between Quasimodo and Frankenstein’s monster—a creation wrestling with abandonment, a hunger for love, and the pain of being othered—are rich territory for del Toro. He can blend baroque visual splendor with devastating emotional intimacy, transforming Hugo’s vision of Paris into a city where compassion and cruelty coexist in every heartbeat. This adaptation would allow del Toro to probe the boundaries of devotion, exploring when faith becomes obsession and whether grace is truly possible for those the world pushes aside.
Del Toro’s treatment would go beyond nostalgia, instead engaging deeply with the agony and sanctity of worship. As in many of his films, he could ask: Is love redeeming when it is forbidden or destructive? For del Toro, adapting The Hunchback of Notre Dame would not just revisit gothic tradition—it would contemplate the nature of mercy itself.
The Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux: Agony, Art, and the Masks We Wear
Few stories seem as perfectly suited for a Guillermo del Toro adaptation as Gaston Leroux’s The Phantom of the Opera, a novel the director himself has expressed an interest in bringing to the screen. Beneath the luminous Paris Opera House, Leroux weaves a tale thick with music, isolation, and the madness that obsession brings.
Erik, the Phantom, occupies a space between creator and abomination—a theme del Toro has returned to throughout his work. The boundary between beauty and monstrosity, between admiration and agony, finds its purest form in this story. Del Toro’s instinct for visual storytelling could turn the Opera House into a living, breathing labyrinth, its corridors echoing with tragedy and longing.
He could explore the duality of creation as a curse, mirroring Frankenstein’s existential ache. Del Toro would amplify the sensual tragedy of Leroux’s prose: masks that crack like porcelain, corridors that hum with phantom echoes, and mirrors that seem to pity the man reflected within them.
Through these layers of visual and emotional metaphor, del Toro could uncover the suffering and hope at the heart of Erik’s story. His adaptation would represent the agony of yearning for love while remaining forever behind a mask. While many versions of The Phantom depict Erik as either villain or victim, del Toro would see him as both—bringing to life a gothic meditation on the desire to be seen, the fear of rejection, and the fragile beauty in irredeemable longing.
A Guillermo del Toro Phantom of the Opera would be the ultimate gothic spectacle, blending operatic sorrow and macabre beauty in a way only he can. It would be, above all, a lament for those who mistake appearance for salvation, echoing del Toro’s cinematic fascination with monsters who seek grace.
Why These Novels Belong in Guillermo del Toro’s Cinematic Universe
Each of these five novels delves into the liminal spaces between creation and destruction, divinity and damnation, horror and wonder—territory that is distinctly Guillermo del Toro’s. From the haunted streets of Barcelona to the ancient Antarctic, the stories probe the cost of remembering, the trauma of abandonment, and the yearning for love and acceptance in the face of monstrosity. Authors like Carlos Ruiz Zafón and Ray Bradbury explore the haunting echo of the past, while Victor Hugo and Gaston Leroux dissect the loneliness of being different and the redemptive, if dangerous, possibility of love. H.P. Lovecraft offers the bleak humility demanded by the unknown, a theme del Toro’s films often transform into reverence for mystery itself.
With Frankenstein, del Toro has already invited us into his world of sacred monsters and trembling humanity. These five books stand as blueprints for the next chapters in his evolution as a director who finds beauty in what others fear and crafts empathy from darkness. Whether he returns to a long-desired Lovecraft project or brings a classic gothic tale to vivid life, the blend of moral depth, visual grandeur, and unwavering compassion that marks all Guillermo del Toro adaptations ensures that any of these stories would become new classics in his hands.
