We're Gonna Need a Bigger Leash

Movie Review:
The Wolfman

R / 1 hr., 42 min. / 2010

The past two decades have seen Hollywood resuscitate Dracula, Frankenstein, and The Mummy, so, given how Hollywood’s sense of originality has been flailing in its final death throes for most of the past decade, I suppose it was only a matter of time before someone latched on to The Wolfman.

When Ben Talbot dies a brutal death at the hands (or claws) of a vicious but unknown killer, his widow Gwen (Emily Blunt) writes to Ben’s estranged brother Lawrence (Benicio Del Toro), pleading for him to return to the Talbot family manor. The family patriarch Sir John (Anthony Hopkins) welcomes Lawrence as best a bereaved father can, and Lawrence pledges to delay his return to his adopted home of America until Ben’s death is solved.

Lawrence’s amateur investigation leads him to a gypsy camp outside the local village, where one fortune-telling gypsy (Geraldine Chaplin) may or may not know how Ben died. But before anyone can fully answer Lawrence’s questions, something begins attacking the gypsy camp. Seen only fleetingly as it races through shadows, the thing is obviously large, strong, and brutal. It doesn’t seem to be hungry so much as it just likes sinking large claws and teeth through any part of a gypsy or vigilante that might happen to make a nice, gooey, slurping sound for 21st-century audiences.

In the course of saving the life of a gypsy boy, Lawrence gets assaulted and bitten by the beast. This brings ominous words of woe from the gypsies, who for completely unknown reasons switch from English to their native tongue and back again in mid-conversation. The ominous words of woe suggest that Lawrence is now cursed, but in what way no one will say – in either language.

The curse, of course, is that he is now a werewolf, doomed to become a big hairy animal consumed with bloodlust whenever the moon is full. Lest you think I’m spoiling anything for the younger generation who did not see the original film and who have been so busy falling in love with sparkling vampires that the concept of werewolves just might be new to them, the film spoils itself in the opening shot. There really is no unfolding suspenseful mystery here, save our finding out who the werewolf is that bites Lawrence in the first place. And frankly, given Hollywood’s slavish adherence to the rules of screenplay writing, the average film-goer should be able to answer that mystery about twenty minutes into the film. Maybe thirty. And the scene in which this is “shockingly revealed” is yet another one of those moments where, because the plot would be too convoluted for Our Hero to figure it out in a two-hour movie, the guilty party simply spills his or her guts (no pun intended).

I guess I segued right from an unfinished plot summary into a critique of the script itself. No matter; the plot is straight from the cookie cutters in Hollywood’s pantry. There’s a man who becomes a monster, there’s a single woman who falls in love with the man, both are played by reasonably charismatic stars. So what part of this plot do you still need summarized? The only creativity that writers Andrew Kevin Walker and David Self add is to sling bloody body parts around and spill intestines on the ground. Even this is not new territory for Walker, who wrote half a dozen severed heads into his adaptation of Sleepy Hollow.

Their script is not only pure formula, it is also a bit murky regarding how you kill a werewolf. Anyone? Anyone? Silver bullets, right? Maybe. Someone in the first half hour muttered something about how werewolves can only be set free by true love; I forget the precise wording but Walt Disney would have liked the line. And based on events in this movie, I would say that if you find yourself facing a werewolf and you did not happen to bring your silver bullets along, it still might not be hopeless. Get creative – your intestines and other gooey, slurpy parts of your body will thank you.

In the midst of all this, there are a few positive surprises to be had. The first is that Joe Johnston, the All-American director of such All-American adventures as The Rocketeer and Honey, I Shrunk the Kids, does have a decent handle on creating a moody, Gothic work of British horror. Working with production designer Rick Heinrichs and cinematographer Shelly Johnson, Johnston crafts a film with a quality look instead of settling for anything cheap. He gives the script a far better delivery than it deserves.

I was particularly captivated and impressed by a scene where Inspector Abberline (Hugo Weaving) chases the Wolfman through London. Johnston gives it a nice look, a nice pace, and does not overdo the action or the length of the chase. The scenes in the asylum torture chamber and lecture hall are also well told, with Antony Sher (Erik the Viking) as the head doctor keeping my attention throughout.

My only disagreement with Johnston’s artistic contribution is regarding his time-lapse technique. With a monster like a werewolf, the only truly interesting parts of the story, the parts horror fans paid to see, take place one night per month. To get us there, Johnston inserts shots of the moon whizzing through the sky, waxing and waning at record speed. Not only is the first use of this technique so sudden it is jarring, but he does it too often and it becomes an annoyance that pulls us out of the story instead of letting us be fully absorbed.

Another positive surprise is how well Benicio Del Toro (Traffic) fits his role. My experience with Del Toro films is limited, but before the film began I was wondering what nut thought putting him in this film was a good idea. Whoever it was, they were right. Maybe not the world’s most brilliant casting decision, but Del Toro pulls off an American accent and an appropriate look for the film respectably well.

Anthony Hopkins (Red Dragon) basically sleepwalks through his role. I don’t mean it’s a bad performance; I just mean how hard can it be for Hopkins to play an English country gentleman? The voice, the face, and the bearing are something he has on a daily basis. Just add dialogue. Emily Blunt (The Young Victoria) and Hugo Weaving (The Matrix) round out the main roles, with Weaving looking particularly convincing as an English investigator. Not everyone looks good in period costumes; Weaving does. Blunt doesn’t seem to add anything any other attractive young actress could not have added – but then neither does the script ask much of her.

This is not really the kind of film that catches my interest before its arrival. Had it not been for one name in the credits I would not have spent the time or money to watch it. But I went because Danny Elfman wrote the music. On that point I was satisfied if not impressed. Elfman’s score sounds very reminiscent of the tragic and romantic music in older Hollywood films; it is more of a traditional, classic tone and less of either his signature or experimental styles. As such, it does its job for the film, but it doesn’t have me frantically adding the soundtrack to my wish list for next Christmas.

Well, so there you have it. The script alone deserves a failing grade, but I’ll give points to Johnston, whose storytelling skills and visual style did keep me interested throughout. It’s a one-timer for anyone into monsters and classic horror stories. And twenty years from now some executive producer will latch on to the idea again, and the cycle will continue – kind of like the predictable way there’s the same old full moon every month.

My Score: 6