Gyllenhaal’s monstrous ‘Bride!’ is dead on arrival
The ultra-feminist diatribe that is “The Bride!” asks us to picture the spirit of a vengeful Mary Shelley inhabiting the reanimated corpse of an American floozy in 1930s Chicago. But I interpreted it differently. Something closer to the ghost of Ed Wood occupying the soul of writer-director Maggie Gyllenhaal during the shooting of her second feature, a reimaging of James Whale’s 1935 masterpiece, “The Bride of Frankenstein.”
Wood’s eerie presence is evident in almost every detail, from the incoherent plot to the stilted dialogue and hammy acting. Still, it’s not nearly as awful as Wood’s infamous “Plan 9 from Outer Space.” But it’s close. Real close. And don’t be surprised if you develop a bruise from all the head slapping triggered by being aghast over Gyllenhaal’s whacky decision making. Believe me, there are some doozies, with the most egregious being how flagrantly she wastes the collective talents of Jessie Buckley, Christian Bale, Annette Bening, Jake Gyllenhaal, Penelope Cruz and Peter Sarsgaard.
All are wildly over the top, always a danger when a fellow actor steps behind the camera, equipped with the knowledge of how annoying and intrusive born-and-bred directors can be when your idea of how a character should be portrayed is challenged. So, Gyllenhaal pretty much lets everyone do what they want, leading to unwieldy performances that recall the Warren Beatty (another actor-turned-director) boondoggle, “Dick Tracy.”
Millions and millions of dollars were lavished on both movies, with an emphasis on spectacular visuals evoking the classic film noirs of the 1940s. And it’s obvious that’s where most of Gyllenhaal’s reported $80 million budget went. And it’s hard to argue that she didn’t get what she paid for, judging by the exceptional contributions by cinematographer Lawrence Sher, costume designer Sandy Powell, production designers Karen Murphy and Rena DeAngelo and the entire hair and makeup department. The film’s look is breathtaking.
Alas, the narrative is just the opposite: a mishmash of ideas and themes that rarely cohere into anything beyond a rant over how women, over time, have been given the short stick in literature and motion pictures. Stop the presses! Much like her acclaimed debut, “The Lost Daughter,” Gyllenhaal is all about assailing the double standards that have befallen women in general and artists, like herself, in particular.
In “The Bride!,” she seeks to bestow posthumous hosannas upon Shelley, who for centuries was denied the credit she deserved for penning the seminal horror novel “Frankenstein” at the ripe old age of 19. Many scholars, most of them male, have had the audacity to suggest that Shelley benefited from heavy rewrites by her alleged lover at the time, Lord Byron. So, she had every right to be pissed. And indeed, the first person we see in “The Bride!” is a deeply aggrieved Shelley, speaking from beyond the grave, in smoky black-and-white, like a vindictive ghost.
She’s played by an emotive Buckley, airing Shelley’s numerous grievances, including her anger at being felled by a brain tumor at age 53. She has more living to do, not to mention a need to set the record straight. So, her spirit enters the body of Ida (also Buckley), a dedicated 1930s party girl frequenting a Chicago speakeasy, where she runs afoul of a couple of goons (John Magaro and Matthew Maher) who accidentally on purpose send her to an early grave.
While all this is going on, a tall, lumbering man with a hideously scarred face is entering the Windy City in search of a Dr. Euphronious, whom the visitor assumes to be a male, but is actually a woman played by Annette Bening. It seems the good doctor has been working on furthering the life-restoring experiments of one Victor Frankenstein. And wouldn’t you know it, the lanky visitor is none other than the Frankenstein “monster,” now more than 100 years old and erudite to the max.
As played by mumbling, grumbling Christian Bale, Frank, as he likes to be called, has come in search of a cure for his loneliness, as well as his long-unfulfilled carnal desires. Natch, he wants Dr. Euphronious to whip him up a mate, someone to share long walks in the rain, accompany him to the talkies to watch his favorite star, the Al Jolson-ish singer-dancer, Ronnie Reed (Jake Gyllenhaal), and to help fend off all those pitchfork-wielding villagers.
You’d think the freshly dead Ida would do the trick. But she has other ideas, because she’s not your grandfather’s Frankenstein’s bride, she’s THEE Bride, exclamation point. That means no arranged marriages for this gal. She’s her own walking-dead woman. Heck, she doesn’t even like Frank at first. That will change, but not before a smitten Frank accepts her as his equal. And when he does, we get what we always wanted to see: Frank and his bride doing the nasty.
Obviously, the tone throughout is decidedly tongue-in-cheek. And there are a few chuckles to be had along the way, but once Frank and Ida, er, The Bride, consummate their post-crypt romance, there’s nowhere for the movie to go. And there’s still more than an hour left to fill. What’s an idea-starved writer-director to do?
Borrow a page from Victor Frankenstein, of course, and rob the graves of dozens of other movies to piece together a raging monster of her own. This includes such intellectual properties as “Bonnie & Clyde,” “Natural Born Killers,” the aforementioned “Dick Tracy,” and Raymond Chandler’s Philip Marlowe, reimagined as a Spanish ex-pat sleuth/secretary played by Penelope Cruz under the pseudonym of Myrna Malloy. And is that Frank in a tux and top hat dancing to “Putting on the Ritz,” just like Peter Boyle did in “Young Frankenstein”? Oy vey!
There are times when watching the ensuing mess unfold that you, too, will want to fetch a pitchfork, as Frank and Ida – excuse me, The Bride – go on a killing spree from Chicago to Manhattan and back with Myrna and her “boss” Jake Wiles (Sarsgaard) in pursuit. And the more the undynamic duo kill, a la Bonnie Parker, the more The Bride, in a blonde shock wig and smeared black guck on her cheek, becomes a murdering folk hero, always one step ahead of Myrna and the law. Well, until she’s not. That’s when the film shifts into “Romeo & Juliet” mode for an “electrifying” ending sans juice.
By the time “The Bride!” reaches its illogical conclusion with the Bride’s repeated and defiant shouts of “Me, too!” filling your ears, you’re left with nothing beyond disappointment. Yet, you’re in awe of how Maggie Gyllenhaal was able to convince Warner Brothers to invest serious cash in something so lavish, but utterly impenetrable. Might this cause Larry Ellison to think twice about forking over all those billions for a studio that spends its dough so unwisely?
Probably not but be prepared for heads to roll once the sale is complete. And watching him chop them off would surely make for a more appealing film than “The Bride!” Heck, you can almost hear the spirits of the studio’s greatest film, “Casablanca,” calling out, saying, “We no longer have Paris.” No, we now have the indelible image of Frank and his Bride going at it in a monster mash that’s sure to leave deep psychological scars. Somewhere, a smug Ed Wood is smiling down – broadly.
Movie review
The Bride!
Rated: R for sexual content/nudity, language, strong/bloody violent content
Cast: Jessie Buckley, Christian Bale, Annette Bening, Peter Sarsgaard, Penelope Cruz, John Magaro and Jake Gyllenhaal
Director: Maggie Gyllenhaal
Writer: Maggie Gyllenhaal
Runtime: 126 minutes
Where: Now in theaters
Grade: C-
