There is a lot to Guillermo del Toro’s filmmaking that I admire. But the prime feat may be the way he can bend just about any story to his jovially macabre sensibilities. There are times when the manipulation of the narrative machinery is a touch too evident onscreen, like the equivalent of steampunk prioritizing clanky decoration over functionality. Even in instances when I generally like the film, I can recognize that to be the case. When del Toro is at his best, rambunctious vision and emotional entwine with such elegance that it’s as if the resulting film sprung up pure and lovely from the loamy earth.

The Shape of Water is set in the early nineteen-sixties, at a secretive government facility in Baltimore. A mute woman named Elisa (Sally Hawkins) is a cleaning woman there, largely scuttling around unnoticed, except by her protective coworker, Zelda (Octavia Spencer). Attentive and curious, Elisa is immediately intrigued when a strange new “asset” is wheeled into one of the more secure labs. It is a humanoid creature (Doug Jones) with amphibian-like biology, calling to mind — very deliberately — Creature from the Black Lagoon. Elisa bonds with the creature, eventually developing a fierce need to protect him, especially when a tyrannical project leader (Michael Shannon) decides the gilled beast can be sacrificed in service of understanding his anatomy to stay a step ahead of the Russians.

If Pan’s Labyrinth is del Toro’s genius dark fairy tale, then The Shape of Water is his kicky, kinky romance novel. Elisa’s affection for her waterlogged new friend extends to physical romance, rendered explicitly and yet with tenderness by del Toro. And the movie swoons with drama and aching hearts, flicking through the wide varieties of need — usually unfulfilled — that drive people. Although the central couple takes rightful prominence, the screenplay (co-credited to del Toro and Vanessa Taylor) takes the time to understand the pangs of regret that trouble most of the characters. Among these, the overlapping complexities of thwarted hopes affecting Elisa’s neighbor Giles are most affecting, due in large part to the wonderful, resonantly kind and empathetic performance of Richard Jenkins.

An uncommon amount of story is packed into The Shape of Water, all clicking into place alongside the themes del Toro chooses to explore, around authority, around outsiderness, around idealized fantasy, around understanding. It is about love and anger, about fear and bravery, about stark reality and the transporting grace of movies. It is about everything, it seems, that del Toro believes in with all his heart. His blissful enthusiasm in sharing these precious things is a grand gift. It makes him, flaws and all, a filmmaker worth celebrating.