It’s alive! I’m talking about the legend of “Frankenstein.” I thought the reanimated corpse of it came close to slipping off life support in Guillermo del Toro’s “Frankenstein,” a movie that, to me, was all baroque production design and no pulse. It was so top-heavy with lavish retro pomposity that it made me never want to see another “Frankenstein” movie again.
But here we are, half a year later, with Maggie Gyllenhaal’s “The Bride!” Is it a horror movie? Not quite. An awards movie? No way. A potential hit? I doubt it. It’s a scrappy punk feminist tragicomedy of l’amour fou, a renegade take-off on the “Frankenstein” myth. And while the movie doesn’t quite work — it lumbers along and blows fuses; it has lots of flesh and blood but not enough storytelling spine — there’s a spark of audacity to it. It’s…
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