What do hunters in the mountains and a caged thrush have in common? A couple of men on a farm looking for a child and a dog obsessed with burrows. A man searching for the ghost of his dead wife and his biker family. A bath in the north that at night reflects all the stars and the frozen Patagonia? The Mapuche resistance, the lost languages ​​and a chase through the mountains? And the machines of the future dismantled in the southernmost town in the world? Frankenstein.
Frankenstein tells the story of the Monster in search of his creator, and on that journey small stories from contemporary Argentina are mixed. From the north towards Patagonia, passing through the desert and the humid Pampa, the Monster without a Past builds its own story along with the film. And like an underground river that unites all the parts, Mary Shelley’s novel opens a dialogue with the present and the future and new forms of monstrosity, more human than ever.
Frankenstein is a film about human journeys; its curves, its slopes and the maps for the return to the town. Or perhaps about the mutant bonds, those that have no name, that have no form, but we know that they exist.