In theory, The Bride should be one of the most exciting films of 2026: an all-star ensemble, an incredibly bold reinvention of a classic piece of IP, and a story deeply rooted in Hollywood monster-movie lore. In execution, however, its brand of radical feminism feels performative. The film may think it’s punk rock, but it ultimately shares far more DNA with a strain of comfortable, affluent feminism.
For lack of a better phrase, this is Chuck Schumer feminism: uninvolved, uninspired, and deeply out of touch.
To her credit, director Maggie Gyllenhaal clearly tries to make something personal and furious. Casting Oscar-winner Jessie Buckley as the titular Bride of Frankenstein is a bold choice, and the film attempts to reframe the classic monster through a modern lens. Gyllenhaal’s goal seems noble: to recontextualize the Bride as a figure with autonomy and agency rather than a passive creation. Buckley, a capable actress, tries to present the Bride as a radical revolutionary confronting the patriarchy. But the performance, and the writing behind it, never quite lands. Instead of revolutionary, the character often comes across as erratic and incoherent.
You can understand the idea the film is reaching for: that the pressures of patriarchy drive women toward a kind of madness. But there’s a difference between explosive tenacity and blunt messaging. When the Bride shouts, “Me Too” multiple times during a heated confrontation, the moment doesn’t feel transgressive -- it feels like an obligatory hashtag.
Heavily inspired by Bonnie and Clyde, and Natural Born Killers, the film follows Ida, the wife of a Chicago mob boss who is killed in 1936 and resurrected by a mad scientist played by Annette Bening. Her purpose: to provide companionship for the monster known as Frank, portrayed by Christian Bale. After killing two men attempting to assault the Bride, the two monsters flee together, leaving chaos in their wake across the East Coast.
It is undeniable that Gyllenhaal’s vision swings for the fences, yet she never has complete hold over her project. There are moments where the film finds solid ground. Gyllenhaal’s decision to pay homage to the cinematic history of Frankenstein is inspired. A reference to Mel Brooks’s Young Frankenstein, easily the film’s best scene, demonstrates the playful self-awareness the rest of the movie desperately lacks. In the film’s messiness, fleeting moments of clarity emerge, which only makes the rest of the experience more frustrating by comparison.
For such a new filmmaker, Gyllenhaal is unabashed in style. Her direction is fearless, albeit in the service of very little. Where she falters is in her ability to rein in the chaos she unleashes. Buckley and Bale deliver maximalist, high-energy performances, yet their characters lack any clear defining traits. Gyllenhaal grants her actors a wide range of freedom but seems uncertain how best to harness their talents.
It is a struggle that many actors-turned-directors face: the temptation to give performers the same freedom they crave as actors themselves. Gyllenhaal allows Buckley and Bale enormous range, but rarely shapes that energy into something coherent. The best directors locate the essence of their actors and build precise but flexible boundaries around them, creating performances that feel alive, unpredictable, and electric. When done right, it produces the thrill of watching a high-wire act. When done wrong, it feels like a director unwilling to tell her actors no.
In trying so desperately to give the Bride a voice, The Bride forgets to give her a character. What’s left is less a monster movie than a manifesto in search of a story.
Author Bio:
Ben Friedman is a contributing writer and film critic at Highbrow Magazine.
For Highbrow Magazine