Victor Frankenstein's granddaughter performs a brain transplant on the legendary titular gunslinger's beefy sidekick and reanimates him to do her bidding for about twenty minutes. Until then, there's plenty of hammy acting to enjoy and one of the silliest fistfights that I've ever seen, but these trivial pleasures don't excuse an hour of plotting as dense as rice paper in wait to see a monster without neck bolts, translucent skin, yellow eyes, black lips or anything besides a stitched noggin and sluggish demeanor to suggest that it's anything other than a normal human. In summary: too much western, too little horror, nowhere near enough monster, and plenty of cheese.
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About the reviewer
Robert Buchanan (rbuchanan)
I'm a bibliophile, ailurophile, inveterate aggregator, dedicated middlebrow and anastrophizing syntax addict. My personality type is that of superlative INTJ.
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