In an era increasingly defined by bold reinterpretations of classic horror, Franc Roddam’s The Bride set out to breathe new life into Mary Shelley’s time-worn tale — but instead delivered a pallid, porcelain imitation, more concerned with moody stares and billowing curtains than genuine pathos or terror.

Reimagining the legendary final act of Frankenstein, this version begins where most others end: with the creation of a mate for the monster. The titular bride, named Eva and played by Flashdance’s Jennifer Beals, emerges not as a shrieking ghoul but a vision of modern femininity painted onto a Victorian canvas. Alas, neither the character nor the performance holds much electricity. Beals looks the part, but is never granted the depth required to make Eva anything more than an ornament in corsetry.

Sting, in a brooding and bizarrely detached turn as Baron Charles Frankenstein, embodies the film’s cold core. Rather than the obsessed, guilt-ridden creator of Shelley’s vision, Sting’s Frankenstein is a handsome cipher with cheekbones for days and little by way of soul. His descent into obsession with Eva is more about controlling her than loving her, turning what could have been an intriguing exploration of gender roles into a sluggish melodrama.

Clancy Brown fares best as the cast-off monster, who embarks on a tender journey of self-discovery and companionship far away from Frankenstein’s sterile chateau. His scenes with a kind-hearted dwarf are oddly touching, suggesting a much better film that briefly stirs to life before the narrative retreats back to its overwrought romance.

The cast, including Geraldine Page, Cary Elwes, Alexei Sayle, and Phil Daniels, is filled with strong players, but most are reduced to little more than Victorian set dressing. Their performances are engulfed by the film’s overly romanticised production design and languid pacing. One half expects them to melt into the candle wax before they get a meaningful line.

Roddam, best known for Quadrophenia, directs with a painter’s eye but not a horror fan’s heart. The film is lush to look at, but devoid of the dread or existential ache that made Shelley’s original novel and James Whale’s 1935 Bride of Frankenstein such enduring works. By trying to humanise the bride and elevate the material into gothic romance, the film forgets to engage with the monster at its centre — both literal and metaphorical.

The Prognosis:

In the grand laboratory of Frankenstein adaptations, The Bride is an experiment that looks exquisite in still frames but collapses under the weight of its own affected seriousness. There’s poetry in the concept, but very little pulse.

• Saul Muerte