Bride a shambling mess of a movie
In the interest of full disclosure, I need to say upfront that I’ve seen James Whale’s The Bride of Frankenstein more than any other movie. It never ceases to entertain, the filmmaker’s inventive combination of gothic horror, dark humor and fairy tale elements are as fresh today as they were 90 years ago. Driven by a touching performance by Boris Karloff as the monster and a delicious turn from Ernest Thesinger as the fay but maniacal Dr. Pretorious, it’s a lean, punk entertainment that doesn’t age, a movie that remains ahead of its time in terms of its distinct aesthetic and sensibility. The ground-breaking makeup of Jack Pierce and the brief iconic appearance of Elsa Lancaster in the titular role makes for a timeless classic, a 75-minute entertainment that manages to frighten, amuse and move the viewer in a narratively economic, efficient manner that’s regrettably a relic from a bygone era.
Despite my affinity for Whale’s film, I kept an open mind regarding Maggie Gyllenhaal’s The Bride, a reimagining of the Universal classic. Yes, there were bound to be changes made. Yes, there would be alterations to the characters. And, I would have to make the concession that the era of today would have a profound effect on updating the movie’s theme.
Unfortunately, nothing could have prepared me for the mess of a movie this is. Overwrought, nonsensical and abrasive, this is a disjointed mish-mash of half-baked ideas that never mesh, coherence being just so much collateral damage in Gyllenhaal’s pursuit of “art.” Hobbled by disparate tones, the film never finds its footing, the director wanting to say so much, yet winds up saying nothing.
While the setting may be Chicago in the 1930s, the action kicks off in some sort of purgatory in which the tortured spirit of Mary Shelley (Jessie Buckley) laments over not being allowed to tell the story she intended to tell. A roiling mass of fury, she sets out to champion the cause of repressed women by possessing Ida (Buckley, also), a moll to a Windy City gangster. Why her or how this happens is never explained. This is the first of many inexplicable plot devices the viewer is supposed to accept without question.
Soon, Ida is spouting off about independence and exposing the local mob boss, in an English accent no less, and, wouldn’t you know it, winds up dead as a result. Fortuitously, the Frankenstein monster (Christian Bale) has just blown into town to pay a visit to Dr. Euphronius (Annette Bening). Seems the scientist has some radical theories revolving around electric currents and reanimating dead flesh. The creature has come to request that she, through her methods, make him a mate.
Ida is fresh enough to be the subject of this experiment and is soon brought back to some version of life. Suffering bouts of amnesia, she’s still contending with Shelley’s voice in her head and questions regarding what she’s become. Soon she and Frank – the name the creature is regrettably referred as – are on the town and in trouble. Killing two would-be rapists, the monsters are soon on the run, a dogged detective (Peter Sarsgaard) and his Girl Friday (Penelope Cruz) on their tail.
The dialogue and sound design are cranked to 11 throughout, the aural assault just one of the film’s many abrasive elements. Gyllenhaal moves her camera for no good reason, it often placed too close to her characters, while the aggressive editing makes for a discordant aesthetic. Sitting through this movie is an unpleasant experience from beginning to end, it’s sound and fury approach, ultimately a chore.
Adding to its jarring nature are the story’s many inexplicable events. Apparently, the monsters are able to project their thoughts and actions into others, as evidenced by an elaborate dance sequence in which they mentally commandeer the bodies of others. They can also project their images and thoughts on to movie screens and other visual sources. Why? Got me!
The setting is a construct of Gyllenhaal’s own, events and inventions from a variety of time periods at play in the “1930s.” Apparently, everyone knows of the existence of the Frankenstein monster, his tortured history common knowledge. Scenes of terror, violence and comedy trip on the heels of one another, a consistent tone absent throughout, while the filmmaker’s lack of understanding regarding the characters’ history and their place in pop culture proves damning. When the monster breaks into a song and dance routine to “Puttin’ on the Ritz,” you’re not sure if Gyllenhaal is pulling our leg or if she hasn’t seen Young Frankenstein.
The veteran cast members do what they can to salvage this mess and if nothing else, none of them embarrass themselves. Buckley is fully committed to her role, her energy never flagging in the face of one exhausting scene after another. Bale, the consummate professional, brings a naivete to the monster, his sympathetic portrayal a marvel. They each deserve to be in a better movie. Bening effectively injects dark humor throughout, while Sarsgaard and Cruz demonstrate a surprising degree of chemistry. Jake Gyllenhaal also appears as Ronnie Reed, a Fred Astaire-like performer Frank has an affinity for.
The tragedy of the film is that Gyllenhaal’s message, which she is obviously desperate to convey, is lost amid the tumult. Her radical view of feminism is vital but misconstrued while any comments she may have regarding the media, identity, our love of the movies and the duality of love are obscured by her approach. In the end, The Bride is a reflection of the Frankenstein monster, a collection of clumsily stitched together parts that lack cohesion, failing to communicate despite the best of intentions. In Theaters.
Pointless Protector a total waste
Taking elements from Taken as well as First Blood, Adrian Grunberg’s Protector purports to be born of a noble cause, namely raising awareness concerning sex trafficking. That’s all well and good, but who are we kidding? This serious issue is used as nothing more than a sensational raison d’etre to build this pedestrian actioner around, one that, at every turn, relies on excessive violence and gore rather than smarts and imagination.
After sobering statistics regarding the sex trafficking issue are displayed on screen, we delve into the plight of an absentee mom. In this case, that would be Nikki (Milla Jovovich), a career Special Forces soldier who loves her vocation but rues the fact that it constantly takes her away from her daughter. Reduced to sending birthday wishes to Chloe via Zoom from wherever she’s deployed each year shoulders her with a sense of guilt she can barely contain.
However, when her husband dies and she’s forced to return home, Nikki vows to make up for lost time, something the now teenage Chloe (Isabel Myers) could care less about. Finding more satisfaction in being petulant and entitled as only a teenager can, the 17-year-old defies her mother at every turn. This includes sneaking out one night to go drinking with her friends. Either through extraordinary bad luck or the laziness of screenwriter Bong-Seob Mun, the young woman is kidnapped by members of the Syndicate, a shadowy organization that specializes in trafficking.
Momma bear Nikki kicks into high gear, using her own very special set of skills to rescue her daughter and it’s just as mundane as you’d imagine. Give Jovovich credit; at 50 years of age, she can still convincingly dole out a butt-kicking with the best of them. Whether it’s stabbing, kicking, shooting or, my favorite, ramming a car key into someone’s eye, the actress’ enthusiasm for lethality is commendable.
While I’m sure it wouldn’t have helped the film much, it would have been nice had anyone else in the cast done more than simply phone in a performance. D.B. Sweeney as the police detective assigned to bring in Nikki seems desperate to make a tee time whenever he appears. His line readings are fast and without inflection, dispensed with the urgency of a man who wants to get away from his present location as fast as he can. On the other end of the spectrum is Matthew Modine as Colonel Lavelle, Nikki’s commanding officer, intent on rounding her up before she can inflict more carnage. Relishing the opportunity to play a tough guy, the actor’s stilted, deliberate line readings show us why he’s never been cast in a role like this before. Lacking the necessary gravitas, the actor comes off as if he’s kid trying and failing to play a grown-up role.
I’m not sure if movies like this are made to eventually be taken as a tax write off, as a contractual obligation or on a dare. What I do know is that Protector is a waste of time, money and talent. Done much better on numerous occasions, this movie serves no purpose, a by-the-numbers affair as dull as it is lacking in imagination. In Theaters.
Dolly a pale clone of better films
More than any other genre, the horror film carries a stigma, one facilitated by lazy directors who fail to understand its potential. Whereas Night of the Living Dead, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Alien and Get Out transcend the genre by commenting on social or political issues through movies of this sort. Far too many “filmmakers” produce movies of little substance, their intent being to shock the audience with instances of excessive violence and gore. Thinking these elements horrific, they fail to realize that without any narrative heft, their Grand Guignol moments have no lasting impact past their initial shock value.
Rod Blackhurst’s Dolly is such a movie, a derivative, plodding exercise in sadism that fails on every level, except in delivering what fans of this kind of trash refer to as “good kills.” Using Chainsaw Massacre as its template, this is an uninspired, simplistic production that utilizes every slasher movie trope you can think of with little inspiration and no imagination. At only 82 minutes, the film is still a slog, only inspired performances from its veteran cast providing points of interest.
You can’t help but feel for Chase (Seann William Scott). He has big plans as he’s taking his girlfriend Macy (Fabianne Therese) to a romantic getaway in the woods where he’s going to propose. Instead, the poor guy ends up getting his foot chopped off and his jaw ripped away by a homicidal maniac. But I’m getting ahead of myself …
While hiking in a remote area, the couple initially sees various old dolls nailed to trees. Thinking it a prank or perhaps an art installation, they brush it off. That is, until they go deeper into the woods and discover an open grave containing a headless body. That it is surrounded by a ring of antiquated dolls is a superfluous grace note.
Wouldn’t you know it, there’s a homicidal maniac running amok! His gimmick is dressing up in a Raggedy Ann costume and wearing an oversized porcelain doll’s head to hide his identity. Oh, and his weapon of choice is a shovel. What with chainsaws, machetes, trowels and hedge shears already associated with other horror icons, that’s about all that’s left. Personally, I think a pruning saw would have been an inspired choice, but that’s just me.
Chase gets mangled while Macy is abducted and taken to a large doll house in the middle of nowhere. There, she’s dressed in doll’s clothes and pampered as if an infant by the narrative cypher. No explanation is given as to why the killer is behaving as he does. Providing motivation would require effort and a bit of brains, which Blackhurst lacks.
Scott is a trouper, enduring what would have been a painful make-up process, while required to crawl about in the damp, dank woods. Ethan Suplee as Tobe, the killer’s brother, provides a bit of a spark, giving much more energy to this “script” than it deserves. Too bad he’s not around longer. As for Therese, she’s really very good, bringing a genuine sense of desperation, giving a convincing portrayal as the requisite “Final Girl.” She deserves a much better movie.
Though I’ve underestimated fans of this sort of schlock before, I don’t think Dolly will catch on. It’s not distinctive enough to have an impact, its tired plot relying far too much on cliches. Besides, I can’t see horror convention cosplayers wanting to run around in a doll costume while wearing a porcelain head. It would just be too cumbersome and the way it would limit your sight, you’d probably end up repeatedly cutting yourself with your shovel. In Theaters.
This article appears in March 5-11, 2026.
