The lights dim in theaters across America starting March 6, 2026, and audiences brace for what promised to be one of the year’s boldest cinematic swings: The Bride!, Maggie Gyllenhaal’s ambitious reimagining of the Frankenstein mythos, starring Jessie Buckley as the electrified Bride and Christian Bale as the brooding monster known simply as Frank. With a stacked cast including Annette Bening, Jake Gyllenhaal, Peter Sarsgaard, and Penélope Cruz, plus Gyllenhaal’s directorial follow-up to her acclaimed 2021 debut The Lost Daughter, expectations soared. Trailers teased a punk-gothic fever dream: frizzy-haired chaos, black-tongued fury, combustible romance, and a feminist reclamation of the classic tale. Yet when the reviews rolled in, one scorched-earth takedown from the New York Post’s Johnny Oleksinski set the internet ablaze: zero stars. “One of the absolute worst movies I’ve had the displeasure of watching in this job,” he declared, calling it a “repellent sludge” that leaves viewers praying for the end credits.

Oleksinski’s venom isn’t isolated—early reactions split sharply—but his review captures the film’s most polarizing elements in brutal detail. Released just two days before opening, it paints The Bride! as a catastrophic misfire: a two-hour-and-five-minute endurance test of confounding script choices, over-the-top performances, laughless confusion, and a “dirty-clown aesthetic” eerily reminiscent of the much-maligned Joker: Folie à Deux. For a film that arrives with IMAX grandeur and a pedigree of Oscar nominees, the disconnect feels seismic. How did a project with such promise descend into what Oleksinski dubs “monster mush”?

The story unfolds in 1930s Chicago, a gritty, shadowy playground for Gyllenhaal’s wild reinvention. It opens not with the monster, but with Mary Shelley herself—dead since 1851—trapped in a limbo between worlds, rambling in sing-songy literary gibberish. “Knock, knock,” she begins, a line that instantly fills Oleksinski with “paralyzing dread” at the prospect of 125 more minutes. Shelley possesses the body of Ida, a foul-mouthed mobster’s girlfriend played by Buckley. After a supernatural outburst at a restaurant leads to her murder—pushed down stairs in a fit of rage—Frankenstein arrives in the Windy City. Still bearing his gruesome stitches, the creature (Bale) seeks companionship. He consults Dr. Euphronious (Bening), a groundbreaking scientist who agrees to reanimate Ida’s corpse with high-voltage electricity, birthing the Bride.

From there, the narrative spirals into outlaw romance. Mary Shelley’s spirit continues to inhabit Ida/Bride, causing erratic accent switches and personality fractures that evoke a Jekyll-and-Hyde dynamic gone haywire. The duo flees after a thug attempts to assault the Bride outside a nightclub; Frank responds by crushing the attacker’s skull under his boot in a brutal, bloody sequence. Pursued by detectives Jake Wiles (Sarsgaard) and Myrna Malloy (Cruz), they hop a train to New York City. There, Frank becomes obsessed with Hollywood star Ronnie Reed (Jake Gyllenhaal), whose black-and-white musical films inspire a pointless, sexualized dance number set to “Puttin’ on the Ritz”—a nod to Young Frankenstein that Oleksinski says “defiles” the reference.

The film’s core message screams loud and clear: “I’m not the Bride of anybody!” It’s a feminist rallying cry against possession, objectification, and male creation myths. Yet in execution, it lands with the subtlety of a foghorn, ineffective and ultimately hollow, according to detractors who compare it to failed anti-messages like “Kids, don’t go subway surfing.”

Buckley’s performance draws the most fire—and fascination. Committed to the point of mania, she hurls herself into the role with frizzy hair, black tongue, and savage energy, evoking her Sally Bowles in Cabaret through maniacal laughter and unhinged shifts. Some praise her as “electrifying,” a “knockout” who chews scenery like couture chaos. Oleksinski, however, finds her unreined: never believable, never sympathetic, just exhausting. Bale blends his Batman gravitas with Gollum-like menace, delivering pervy lines like “I’m looking for an intercourse” and “a garden of pleasures” that land as unintentionally hilarious or deeply uncomfortable. The supporting cast fares little better—Bening’s mad scientist feels underused, while the Gyllenhaals and Cruz navigate clichéd detective tropes in a pursuit that feels tacked on.

Visually, the film aims for punk-gothic grandeur: shot on IMAX, with bold lighting, shadowy limos, and a grimy, clownish palette. Trailers promise lush gothic romance and radical social upheaval. But critics who echo Oleksinski see only fog and confusion—no unique style, just strained attempts at edginess. The dance sequence stands out as particularly egregious: a sexualized spectacle that halts momentum without payoff. The end credits cap it all with “Monster Mash,” a final nail in what Oleksinski calls this “monster mush.”

Context matters here. Gyllenhaal’s debut, The Lost Daughter, was a masterclass in subtle psychological tension, starring Buckley and earning widespread acclaim. Expectations were sky-high for her sophomore effort—a bigger swing into genre, horror-romance, and blockbuster territory. Early festival buzz and premiere reactions were wildly positive in some quarters: “ferocious, funny, chaotic, romantic,” “one of the most daring and original films of 2026,” “Buckley and Bale are magnetic monsters.” Variety called it a “lumbering punk horror trip” with full-throttle leads; The Guardian hailed Buckley’s “barnstorming” turn as “sinister spouse.” Rotten Tomatoes sits at mixed (around 59% as of early March), Metacritic hovering in the average range. For every voice decrying it as exhausting sound and fury, another celebrates its audacity and visual daring.

Yet the NY Post review cuts deepest because it confronts the gap between ambition and execution. In an era of safe IP reboots, Gyllenhaal took massive risks: centering the Bride’s agency, blending horror with musical elements, infusing 1930s noir with modern feminist rage. When it works—as in Buckley’s raw intensity or Bale’s haunted presence—it tantalizes. When it doesn’t, the seams show: threads left dangling, tonal whiplash, dialogue that paralyzes rather than provokes.

As theaters fill this weekend, The Bride! will spark fierce debate. Is it a misunderstood masterpiece of chaotic liberation, or a hubristic disaster that squanders stellar talent? Buckley’s ferocity alone may lure viewers curious about the “wild, audacious” spectacle. Bale’s commitment could salvage moments of tragic romance. But for those swayed by Oleksinski’s zero-star verdict, the advice is blunt: leave her at the altar.

In the end, The Bride! embodies the high-wire act of bold filmmaking. When it connects, it could redefine monster movies for a new generation. When it falters—as this scathing review insists—it becomes a cautionary tale of overreach. Whether you emerge electrified or begging for the lights to come up, one thing is certain: no one will walk away indifferent. In a landscape of predictable blockbusters, that’s a spark worth chasing—even if it singes.