“The Big Bad” made me cry. Not from any feeling or dramatization delineated onscreen, but rather from the extinguished and foggy cinematography that should have lit a match and set flame to my eyes. The motion picture looks as if it was shot through cloth, which would be fabulous if the story was told through the primary individual point of view of a mummy. But “The Big Bad” is a werewolf film.
Frankie is a lady frantically hunting the city’s shabby underbelly down the man who murdered her family. That man is a werewolf and, well, that wholes up the whole plot.
“The Big Bad” is as frantic as the hero. The motion picture tries so difficult to be creative for craftsmanship’s purpose that it neglects to frame an exceptional personality and rather gathers itself like a Frankenstein’s Monster out of old fashioned and strange silver screen strategies.