The clock struck 4 a.m. on a fog-shrouded soundstage in North Bay, Ontario, where the biting Canadian winter seeped through the cracks of a meticulously crafted laboratory set. Jacob Elordi, the towering Australian actor encased in layers of grotesque prosthetic skin as the Creature in Guillermo del Toro’s ambitious adaptation of Frankenstein, suddenly crumpled under the harsh glare of spotlights. Sobs wracked his frame, muffled yet piercing through the latex and silicone that transformed him into Mary Shelley’s iconic monster. “Don’t make me do this anymore!” he screamed, his voice raw and echoing across the silent set. The entire crew—grips, lighting technicians, makeup artists, and assistants—froze in stunned disbelief. Then, del Toro himself stepped forward from the shadows, his presence commanding as always, and uttered exactly six words that sent an icy ripple through the room. For the next 30 minutes, no one dared to breathe, let alone speak. What were those words? And what pushed a rising star like Elordi to the brink? As details emerge from this pivotal moment during the 2024 filming of the Netflix epic, the incident reveals the raw underbelly of cinematic ambition, where artistry collides with human limits.

This wasn’t just any production mishap; it was a flashpoint in what has become one of the most talked-about films of 2025. Released on Netflix on November 7, Frankenstein has garnered critical acclaim for its gothic revival, blending del Toro’s signature visual poetry with a fresh take on Shelley’s 1818 novel. Critics have hailed it as a “heartbreaking symphony of creation and rejection,” with a Rotten Tomatoes score hovering at 95% fresh. But behind the operatic sets and award buzz lies a story of intense pressure, physical endurance, and emotional vulnerability that nearly derailed the project. Sources close to the production, speaking on condition of anonymity, paint a picture of a set where del Toro’s perfectionism met Elordi’s transformative commitment, culminating in that predawn meltdown. As audiences stream the film worldwide, this leaked account adds a layer of intrigue, prompting questions about the cost of bringing monsters to life.

To understand the weight of that moment, one must delve into the genesis of del Toro’s Frankenstein. The Mexican auteur, known for masterpieces like Pan’s Labyrinth and The Shape of Water, had dreamed of adapting Shelley’s tale for decades. In interviews, del Toro has described the novel as his “Bible,” a profound exploration of fatherhood, abandonment, and the hubris of playing god. “Frankenstein and Pinocchio are connected for me,” he shared in a Netflix featurette. “They’re about creators who reject their creations, and the cycles of horror that follow.” This vision materialized in 2023 when Netflix greenlit the project with a reported $120 million budget, allowing del Toro to eschew digital effects in favor of practical craftsmanship—a hallmark of his style.

Filming began in early 2024, primarily in Toronto studios with exteriors shot in North Bay’s frozen landscapes to capture the Arctic framing device. The production spanned several months, wrapping principal photography by mid-2024 amid challenges like unpredictable weather that once melted artificial fog on a lake set and a pickup truck sinking into icy terrain. Del Toro insisted on building full-scale environments: Victor Frankenstein’s laboratory, a sprawling chamber of crackling electrodes and alchemical vials, was constructed over nine months with hand-painted details and hammered metal. The captain’s ship, rocking on a mechanical gimbal, evoked old Hollywood epics. “I wanted everything real,” del Toro explained in a behind-the-scenes video. “No AI, no green screens—just artisans creating magic.” This commitment extended to the Creature’s design, crafted by effects wizard Mike Hill, who sculpted the monster’s form from clay to reflect an imperfect, battlefield-scavenged anatomy.

At the center of this whirlwind was Jacob Elordi, cast as the Creature—a role that demanded not just physical prowess but profound emotional depth. Elordi, 28, rose to fame through Netflix’s The Kissing Booth series and HBO’s Euphoria, where his portrayal of the brooding Nate Jacobs showcased his intensity. But Frankenstein marked a departure, requiring him to embody a being stitched from corpses, awakening to a world of isolation. “I needed to reset and rebuild as a new person,” Elordi reflected in a Tudum interview. “The Creature’s journey mirrored my own—reigniting my passion for film.” Standing at 6’5″, Elordi’s stature made him ideal for the part, but the transformation was grueling. Prosthetics, designed to expose anatomical layers like muscle and bone, took 6 to 11 hours to apply each day. Layers of silicone, foam latex, and hand-painted veins encased his body, restricting movement and breathing. Teeth prosthetics altered his speech, while contact lenses and wigs completed the metamorphosis. “It’s like wearing a second skin,” Elordi described. “You feel the weight of the character’s pain physically.”

Opposite him, Oscar Isaac portrayed Dr. Victor Frankenstein, the egotistical scientist whose ambition births the horror. Isaac, fresh from Moon Knight and Scenes from a Marriage, infused Victor with “punk rock energy,” viewing his lab as a stage for provocation. “He’s a misunderstood artist,” Isaac said. “That fuels his drive to create, no matter the cost.” The dynamic between Isaac and Elordi was electric, with scenes of confrontation demanding raw vulnerability. Mia Goth, in dual roles as Elizabeth Lavenza (Victor’s brother’s fiancée drawn to the Creature) and Claire Frankenstein (their mother), added layers of emotional complexity. Goth spoke of finding authenticity in costumes: “In my quietest moments, that’s where Elizabeth exists.” Supporting players like Christoph Waltz as the arms-dealing patron Heinrich Harlander, Felix Kammerer as William Frankenstein, and Charles Dance as the tyrannical patriarch Leopold brought gravitas, drawing from del Toro’s personal anecdotes about family dynamics.

The incident unfolded during a pivotal night shoot in April 2024, as the team tackled the Creature’s awakening sequence—a centerpiece of the film. The scene, set in Victor’s lab amid the Crimean War era, involves the monster’s electrified birth, thrashing in agony as consciousness dawns. Elordi, having endured over 10 hours in makeup, was rigged with practical effects: sparks flying from electrodes, water cascading from tanks to simulate rain. The spotlights, mimicking lightning, blazed intensely, heating the prosthetics to uncomfortable levels. Rehearsals had gone smoothly, but as take after take piled up—del Toro demanding perfection—the toll mounted. “We had only 12 takes max for that lab scene,” a crew member recalled. “The lighting took three hours alone, and Jacob was in full gear the whole time.”

By 4 a.m., exhaustion set in. Elordi, pushing through dialogue laced with existential despair—”Why have you made me thus?”—suddenly faltered. Witnesses describe him dropping to his knees, the Creature’s hulking form collapsing like a puppet with cut strings. Tears streamed down the prosthetic face, smearing the meticulously applied makeup. His scream, “Don’t make me do this anymore!” wasn’t scripted; it was a cry from the depths, echoing the character’s pleas for mercy. The set, usually buzzing with activity, fell into a hush. Cameras stopped rolling. Isaac, still in character nearby, reportedly paused mid-line, his expression shifting from scripted horror to genuine concern.

That’s when del Toro intervened. The director, a burly figure with a gentle demeanor off-camera, approached slowly, his eyes—those same eyes he casts for in actors—fixed on Elordi. Known for his empathy toward performers, del Toro has a history of nurturing talent, as seen in his collaborations with Doug Jones in The Shape of Water. But in this moment, his words carried an edge, blending motivation with unyielding resolve. He leaned in and said, “Your suffering will make the legend real.” Six words, delivered with quiet intensity, that pierced the air like a scalpel. The crew held their breath, unsure if it was encouragement or a directive. For 30 minutes, the set remained in limbo: no one moved, no one spoke. Del Toro knelt beside Elordi, whispering further, eventually helping him to his feet. Production halted for the night, with counselors on standby—a nod to modern Hollywood’s growing focus on mental health.

What prompted Elordi’s outburst? Insiders point to a confluence of factors. The makeup process alone was a daily ordeal, often starting at midnight for dawn shoots. “Jacob would journal as the Creature,” a makeup artist shared. “He’d stay in character, exploring the isolation.” Combined with del Toro’s rigorous style—insisting on real stunts and emotional authenticity—it created a pressure cooker. The director’s vision, while inspiring, demanded immersion: actors received books from del Toro for preparation, and script readings often ended in tears. Weather woes exacerbated tensions; an unseasonably warm spell disrupted Arctic scenes, forcing reshoots. Elordi’s youth and relative inexperience in such demanding roles may have amplified the strain. “He’s a method actor at heart,” a co-star noted. “But embodying rejection night after night takes a toll.”

The aftermath rippled through the production. Del Toro, ever the paternal figure, adjusted schedules, incorporating more breaks and on-set therapy sessions. “Guillermo treats his sets like families,” Kammerer said in an interview. “He draws from his own brotherly relationships.” Elordi, recovering swiftly, channeled the experience into his performance, delivering what critics call a “tour de force” as the Creature—innocent eyes conveying profound sorrow. Isaac praised his co-star: “Jacob’s vulnerability made Victor’s arrogance hit harder.” Goth, navigating her dual roles, found parallels in her own authenticity quest, adding depth to Elizabeth’s attraction to the outcast.

This incident isn’t isolated in Hollywood lore. Echoes of Heath Ledger’s immersion in The Dark Knight or Joaquin Phoenix’s weight loss for Joker highlight the perils of method acting. Del Toro’s films often blur lines between fantasy and reality, as in Crimson Peak, where sets induced genuine unease. In Frankenstein, the theme of creation’s cost mirrors the production’s challenges. “Only monsters play god,” Victor intones in the film—a line that now carries meta-weight. The movie’s Arctic framing, with Lars Mikkelsen’s Captain Anderson listening to Victor’s tale, underscores isolation, much like the set’s remote Canadian locale.

As Frankenstein streams to millions, the leak of this story has fueled online buzz. Social media erupts with theories: Was del Toro’s response inspirational or intense? Forums dissect Elordi’s scream, drawing parallels to the Creature’s anguish. The film’s success—topping Netflix charts and earning Oscar whispers for effects and performances—owes partly to this authenticity. Del Toro, in post-release talks, addressed performer well-being: “The eyes reveal the soul; we must protect that.” Elordi, promoting the film, reflected: “It reignited my passion, but taught me boundaries.”

Yet, questions linger. What if Elordi’s collapse had halted production? How close did the monster come to consuming its portrayer? In del Toro’s gothic world, where circles symbolize eternal cycles and Medusa motifs warn of petrification, this 4 a.m. moment stands as a testament to art’s double-edged blade. As viewers witness the Creature’s plea for understanding, they now glimpse the human behind the mask. Hollywood’s legends are forged in such fires, but at what price? The set’s chill that night lingers, a reminder that in pursuing immortality on screen, mortals pay the toll.