The Hearse (1980) – Review

Some movies slip through the cracks of horror history—not quite cult classics, not quite forgotten relics, but instead hovering in that strange purgatory where genre fans know of them without necessarily having seen them. The Hearse, directed by George Bowers, is exactly that sort of film.

On paper, The Hearse has all the makings of a gothic horror standout: an isolated old house with a tragic history, a small town with suspiciously nosy locals, a mysterious stranger who may or may not be a ghost, and, of course, the titular hearse, gliding down shadowy backroads like a rolling omen. But the actual film we get? Well, let’s just say the coffin lid doesn’t always shut tightly. The story follows Jane Hardy (Trish Van Devere), a recently divorced schoolteacher who retreats to the rural town of Blackford to spend the summer in her late aunt Rebecca’s house. From the start, Jane faces hostility from locals like attorney Walter Pritchard (Joseph Cotten), who claims the house should be his, and unsettling visions of both her aunt’s ghost and a phantom hearse that appears and vanishes without explanation.

 

Not to mention, nightmares that may be more than dreams.

Jane’s attempts to settle in are further complicated by strange nocturnal disturbances, Rebecca’s diary—which reveals her involvement with devil worship—and her budding romance with the enigmatic Tom Sullivan (David Gautreaux), who first appears after rescuing her from a car accident in his vintage black car. Though charming, Tom’s connection to Rebecca and the sinister events in town becomes increasingly suspicious, while Jane finds herself drawn deeper into the house’s dark history. Meanwhile, young handyman Paul Gordon (Perry Lang) develops his own attachment to Jane, only to be caught in the supernatural crossfire.

 

“Miss Hardy, have you ever heard of the term MILF?”

The final act confirms Jane’s worst fears: Rebecca had made a pact with Satan, and Tom is not only linked to her but may in fact be the same man—undead, Immortal, and bound to fulfill the pact through Jane. After the deaths of both Pritchard and Paul, Jane learns the truth and is nearly ensnared in Tom’s bargain before Reverend Winston (Donald Hotton) intervenes with an attempted exorcism. The climax escalates into a desperate chase as Tom pursues Jane in the hearse, ending in fiery destruction when it crashes and explodes off a cliff. Yet even in defeat, the evil lingers—Rebecca’s apparition watching from the darkened house, as though the pact has never truly ended.

 

Don’t worry, there will not be a sequel.

Stray observations:

• If horror films have taught me anything, it’s that visiting your old hometown will lead to nothing but trouble. Just ask Ben Mears about his trip back to Salem’s Lot.
• If on your first night in an old house, a music box plays by itself, and is then not where you left it the following morning, pack your things and get out. That’s just common sense.
• She’s run off the road multiple times, someone breaks into her house, but she never calls the police. And sure, the sheriff’s a creep, but you could at least file a report.
• The film is practically allergic to speed — it takes almost an hour before anything truly happens, making it feel like a gothic horror trapped inside a real-estate dispute.
• Jane Hardy spends more time wandering through her aunt’s house than anyone spends wandering in Scooby-Doo. You start to think the real horror is poor interior lighting.
• The townspeople are weirdly hostile to Jane from the very first scene. Imagine moving to a small town and immediately having everyone tell you to get lost — it’s like The Wicker Man, but with less music and more awkward silences.
• Dennis Quaid shows up uncredited as a telephone repairman, and it had me questioning whether this was a horror film or a porno.

 

“Did someone call for a hook-up?”

The strongest element here is the sense of mood. Bowers leans heavily into gothic trappings—foggy woods, candlelit hallways, a piano that seems to play by itself—and the titular hearse, a black, silent, almost sentient vehicle that stalks Jane at odd moments, works well as a recurring image. There are even flashes of Carnival of Souls in the way the hearse appears: sudden, spectral, inexplicable. When the film embraces its uncanny imagery, it has a kind of dreamy potency, the sense that Jane has stepped into a nightmare that obeys its own strange rules.

 

Safety Tip: Do not approach a hearse in your nightgown at night.

But atmosphere can only take a movie so far, and The Hearse too often mistakes slow-burn pacing for suspense. Scenes that should build tension tend to drag, and Jane spends a lot of the movie wandering, staring, or repeating the same cycle of being spooked, doubted, and dismissed. The “romantic” subplot, with David Gautreaux as the charming yet suspicious Tom Sullivan, and Joseph Cotton’s turn as a shady lawyer, feels like padding rather than a plot. The supposed “mystery” of whether Jane is losing her mind or whether supernatural forces are really at work is handled with such clumsy repetition that by the time the finale arrives, the audience is more exasperated than intrigued.

 

We get a lot of wandering around in the dark.

Still, there’s something endearing about its old-fashioned earnestness. This was 1980, after all—the year that Friday the 13th and the slasher boom hit big—yet The Hearse looks backward instead of forward, clinging to gothic horror traditions of the ‘60s and ‘70s. In some ways, that makes it an oddity worth revisiting. It’s not interested in gore, not really interested in innovation, and definitely not interested in the new wave of horror excess. Instead, it’s a moody little throwback, caught between ghost story and melodrama, with occasional jolts of supernatural menace. The Hearse’s grill is even more evil-looking than the one from The Car (1977).

 

Sadly, it doesn’t have that one’s cool honking horn.

Does it succeed? Not entirely. The acting wavers, the script is repetitive, and the scares rarely land with much force. And yet, if you’re in the right frame of mind—say, late at night, with the lights down and the volume up—the movie can lull you into its creaky rhythms. The sight of the black hearse, its headlights cutting through mist as it silently appears and disappears, remains a striking image, and that alone almost justifies its minor cult reputation.

 

There’s always room for one more.

In the end, The Hearse is the kind of movie you watch less for thrills and more for vibes. It’s gothic wallpaper, a ghost story whispered half-heartedly, but there’s a certain charm in its refusal to be anything other than what it is: a small, slightly dusty horror curio. Not quite alive, not quite dead—much like the hearse itself, endlessly circling backroads, carrying something you can’t quite see but feel all the same.

Curse of the Faceless Man (1958) – Review

Move over, The Mummy—there’s a new ancient undead romantic in town, and he’s slow, dusty, and looks like someone left a clay sculpture in the microwave for too long. This entry tells the thrilling tale of an immortal Roman gladiator encased in volcanic ash, who appears to have been sculpted out of leftover oatmeal and possesses the fashion sense of a dusty throw pillow.

The movie kicks off in Pompeii, Italy—home of Mount Vesuvius, lava, and inconvenient volcanic eruptions. While excavating the ruins, archaeologists unearth a jewel box and a mysterious, ash-covered humanoid figure, solid as granite and wrapped up like a Roman mummy. But here’s the kicker—the body shows signs of life. Yeah, it’s still warm. Oh, and there’s a strange brooch found with the body. It’s got ancient symbols and gives off heavy “cursed object alert” vibes.

 

“This will make me famous or get a lot of people killed.”

Our hero is Dr. Paul Mallon (Richard Anderson), who is brought in by Dr. Carlo Fiorello (Luis Van Rooten) to take a look at this startling find. Unfortunately, en route to the Museo di Napoli, the body comes to life and kills the driver of the truck that was transporting it. Afterwards, the body, apparently dead again, is found several meters away from the wrecked truck. Without witnesses, no one fully understands what has happened. Both our hero and the authorities are baffled by the “accident,” but when Dr. Emanuel (Felix Locher) shows up with the translation of the Etruscan writing found on a bronze brooch, things become clear. He suspects this may be Quintillus Aurelius, a Roman gladiator who was supposedly buried alive during the eruption of Vesuvius, and that the eruption was caused by a curse this gladiator had placed on the brooch in response to the forbidden love between him and a Roman noblewoman.

 

This plot is as half-baked as that gladiator.

Enter Tina Enright (Elaine Edwards), a beautiful artist and fiancée to Paul Mallon. Tina begins painting images of ancient Rome and—wait for it—portraits of the very Faceless Man before ever seeing him. Tina insists she’s dreamed of the Faceless Man, and feels some weird, almost magnetic connection to it. She even believes she might have been someone else in another life. Cue the reincarnation subplot! Tina thinks she was a Roman noblewoman, and the Faceless Man was her doomed gladiator lover. Sure enough, Tina turns out to be the reincarnation of Quintillus’s ancient love, a Roman noblewoman who died in Pompeii. Apparently, love really never dies—it just bakes in lava for a couple of thousand years and comes back with a grudge and no face. 

 

“Honey, is that you?”

Paul brushes this off because SCIENCE, but let’s be real—he’s dating someone with psychic visions and hauntingly specific historical recollections. He should probably take that more seriously. Sure enough, spooky stuff starts happening. People around the museum begin to die—strangled to death—with a fine dusting of volcanic ash left behind. It doesn’t take long for the film’s supporting characters (and eventually Paul) to suspect the impossible: the Faceless Man may be alive. Or reanimated. Or possessed. Or all three.

 

“My money is on  the creature having watched The Mummy.”

Apparently, radiation (because it’s the 1950s and that explains everything) has reawakened the creature, and now it’s roaming the streets—silent, slow, and unkillable. It’s basically a prehistoric Terminator with a crush. But he’s not just killing at random. He’s searching for Tina, his long-lost Roman love. His tragic, undead heart still beats… metaphorically. Somewhere inside that stone husk, the gladiator’s soul lives on, guided by sheer will and ancient rage. Tina is torn between fear and fascination. Is she truly connected to this creature? Can she stop it with love alone? Paul’s not buying the “reincarnated girlfriend” angle, but he’s finally on board with “animated lava-man is murdering people.

 

Can true love defeat an ancient Etruscan curse?

Eventually, the authorities confront the Faceless Man, who predictably shrugs off bullets like raindrops. But love (or at least emotionally charged confrontation) proves to be his undoing. In the film’s startling climax, the Faceless Man captures Tina and carries her down to the ocean. It’s meant to be a tragic, romantic finale: he wants to escape with her, perhaps into the sea, perhaps into oblivion. But Paul and the authorities catch up just in time to watch this tragic figure carrying Tina into the surf, and while their bullets are ineffective, to their amazement, Quintillus simply dissolves in the seawater.

 

A damp and soggy conclusion.

Stray Observations:

• The monster is called “Faceless,” but he clearly has a face. It’s just gooey and looks like a melted candle. Maybe “Curse of the Vaguely Deformed Man” didn’t test well.
• Anyone caught in the 79 AD eruption of Mount Vesuvius was instantly killed by superheated gases, not gently turned to stone. The “stone” figures we have today are actually plaster, made from the “moulds” left behind by the solidified ash.
• People in this movie show a startling blasé attitude to seeing a stone-mummified figure moving. Was this a common thing in the 1950s?
• The explanation for why Faceless gets up, murders, but then goes back to playing possum has something to do with being powered by X-rays, because, sure, why not?
• When Tina is hypnotized and is regressed back to her past life, she speaks in English, rather than Latin as an ancient Roman citizen would.
• The supposedly priceless, possibly alive Roman relic is simply left out in one of the museum’s exhibit rooms, with no thought to security, just one idiot watchman. 

 

No wonder the monster keeps going for walks.

This 1958 B-movie, directed by Edward L. Cahn (a dependable name in low-budget sci-fi), throws its lot in with the “revived ancient menace” subgenre—think The Mummy, but with fewer bandages and more clay. There’s something unintentionally charming about how seriously the film takes its pseudo-scientific mumbo jumbo, spouting theories about radiation, reincarnation, and psychic memories like they’re hard science. Meanwhile, the titular faceless man lumbers through the movie with all the speed of drying cement. 

 

“Look, they’re eloping!”

The acting is passable, led by Richard Anderson (future Six Million Dollar Man star), who plays a doctor trying to use science to explain away why his fiancée keeps having Pompeii-themed nightmares. While Elaine Edwards, who plays the reincarnated love interest, might as well be wearing a sign that says “Damsel in Distress” around her neck. And the climax? Let’s just say it involves water, clay, and an ending so abrupt it feels like the editor fell asleep on the cut button.

 

“Shall we visit an ancient Egyptian tomb next?”

Special effects? Oh, they’re special all right. The Faceless Man looks like he was made of Play-Doh left in a sandbox. He punches through a door at one point, but with the grace of a tired grandpa swatting a fly. The action is so slow that I aged like a preserved Roman just watching it, and by the time the climax arrived, involving the monster trudging into the ocean for a dramatic wet sulk — I was rooting for the sea to just end it all, for everyone’s sake. Imagine if The Mummy took a nap, forgot its lines, and was replaced by a guy in a clay Halloween costume—and you’d still have more thrills than Curse of the Faceless Man delivers in its entire 67-minute runtime. Yes, 67 minutes. And it still felt too long.

 

“Can our thin plot even hold up that long?”

In conclusion, if you like your horror slow, your monsters crusty, and your ancient curses solved by sheer boredom, Curse of the Faceless Man is the bad movie night gift you didn’t ask for. It’s not a film so much as a sleepy shuffle through a haunted museum of missed opportunities. 

The Avengers: A Touch of Brimstone (1966) – Review

Few episodes of The Avengers, or any other television shows for that matter, have ever danced so boldly along the line of risqué and refined as “A Touch of Brimstone”—a stylish, subversive, and deliciously decadent hour of television that remains one of the show’s most infamous outings.

Originally airing in 1966 as part of the fourth season, this episode finds John Steed (Patrick Macnee) and Emma Peel (Diana Rigg) investigating a series of bizarre and politically motivated pranks targeting high society figures. A series of clues leads them to the Hellfire Club, a secretive and decadent society that revels in 18th-century aesthetics and libertine traditions, and—of course—dressed-to-the-nines debauchery. At the centre of it all is the charismatic and dangerous Sir John Cleverly Cartney (Peter Wyngarde), a wealthy nobleman who has revived the historical Hellfire Club, embracing its philosophy of excess, mischief, and hedonism. Under his leadership, the group’s activities have escalated into acts of sabotage, all in pursuit of his ultimate goal: destabilizing the British government.

 

“Says here we have to save Britain, again.”

As Steed and Peel delve deeper, they discover that the club is more than just a gathering for wealthy thrill-seekers. Wintour and his associates are planning a dramatic coup, using their influence to sow chaos among the elite and disrupt the nation’s leadership, with their operations involving elaborate staged humiliations and assaults on key figures, with their final target being an assassination during an upcoming society event. Emma, in her undercover role, is eventually captured by Wintour, who forces her to participate in the club’s debauched festivities. Dressed in a sultry, dominatrix-like “Queen of Sin” outfit—complete with a spiked collar, corset, and thigh-high boots—she is presented as the star attraction of the evening’s entertainment. Can our heroes thwart this dastardly plot? But more importantly, should they?

 

I wonder what the membership dues are.

Stray Observations:

• The episode’s villains, a modern-day Hellfire Club, are loosely based on the real 18th-century secret society of the same name. Their motto? “Do what thou wilt.” Is such a society due for a comeback?
• Peter Wyngarde’s villainous John Cartney and his flamboyant style, smug smirk, and penchant for theatrical evil, practically foreshadow his future turn as Klytus in Flash Gordon (1980).
• Steed has a nice duel with a member of the Hellfire Club, one who has steel fingers that conceal spiked tips. This guy is one step away from being a classic Bond villain henchman.
• Despite Emma Peel being dressed as a dominatrix, Cartney tells his fellow club members to “Do with her as you will” and she is taken away by them seemingly for their own agenda. 

 

That’s not how you treat a dominatrix!

This episode is a perfect encapsulation of The Avengers at its most seductive and stylized—brimming with wit, danger, and a touch of the illicit. Patrick Macnee is at his suave best, effortlessly shifting between charm and deadpan humour, but it is Diana Rigg as the electric Emma Peel who steals the show here as she exudes intelligence, charm, and a fearless attitude while navigating the decadent world of the Hellfire Club. Her chemistry with Macnee’s Steed is, as always, delightful, with their flirtatious banter adding levity to the episode’s darker undertones. Peter Wyngarde’s Sir John Cartney is one of the show’s finest villains—sly, sophisticated, and thoroughly menacing. His portrayal of aristocratic cruelty and entitlement is chilling, and his interplay with Rigg creates some of the episode’s most intense moments. 

 

A villain most suave.

This is one of the most visually striking in the entire series, blending elegant period aesthetics with a dark, decadent undercurrent and drawing heavy inspiration from the real-life Hellfire Club. its lavish production design, bold costuming, and dramatic cinematography make it a standout. The sets are grand and evocative, from shadowy candlelit chambers to the Hellfire Club’s ornate, cavernous lair, filled with velvet drapes, chandeliers, and ominous statues. The use of high-contrast lighting emphasizes the episode’s darker, almost Gothic tone, fitting for a story about secret societies and sadistic pageantry. The lavish period costumes, dimly lit stone chambers, and candle-lit revelry create an atmosphere of eerie decadence, blending historical influences with a swinging ‘60s edge, making it a visual treat.

 

A nice slice of debauchery.

However, what truly makes “A Touch of Brimstone” legendary is its boldness as the episode is steeped in themes of decadence, dominance, and submission, pushing the boundaries of 1960s television. Emma Peel’s “Queen of Sin” outfit—a leather corset, spiked collar, and thigh-high boots— became one of the most iconic (and risqué) images of 1960s television. Yet, rather than feeling exploitative, the episode’s more scandalous elements are balanced with a knowing wink—embracing the playful, tongue-in-cheek tone that The Avengers mastered so well.

Note: Diana Rigg not only looks amazing as the “Queen of Sin” but she designed the costume herself. As if we needed any more reasons to be impressed by her.

At its core, the episode explores themes of decadence, power, and moral corruption. The Hellfire Club serves as a metaphor for unchecked privilege and elitism, with its members revelling in lawlessness under the guise of tradition. Sir John Cartney embodies the dangers of aristocratic excess, using his influence not for the betterment of society but for self-indulgence and control. As for Emma Peel, her role in the episode is particularly significant. Her temporary subjugation as the “Queen of Sin”—a moment of visual and thematic intensity—highlights the fine line between empowerment and objectification.

Note: The Hellfire Club concept even influenced the X-Men comics, inspiring the creation of their own villainous group, complete with a “Black Queen” who strongly resembles Diana Rigg’s “Queen of Sin.”

In conclusion, “A Touch of Brimstone” stands as one of The Avengers’ finest and most notorious outings. From Diana Rigg’s iconic (and controversial) costume to Peter Wyngarde’s deliciously wicked performance, the episode remains a cult classic for fans of the series and lovers of ‘60s spy television. Whether viewed as a high-camp masterpiece or a daring slice of adventure television, it’s impossible to deny its impact.

Island of Terror (1966) – Review

What happens when science goes too far? If you guessed “boneless corpses and Peter Cushing looking concerned,” then you may have seen the Island of Terror. This British sci-fi horror film, directed by Terence Fisher, is a solid blend of atmospheric tension, eerie practical effects, and that charmingly stiff-upper-lip British horror vibe of the era.

On a small, isolated island off the coast of Ireland, a team of scientists is conducting some top-secret research in a lab that – as horror movie tradition dictates – is clearly up to no good. The story kicks off when local Dr. Reginald Landers (Eddie Byrne) stumbles upon a mystery most macabre: the corpse of a local farmer, but wait—he has no bones. That’s right, he’s turned into a human jelly sack. Understandably freaked out, Landers calls in the big guns—Dr. Brian Stanley (Peter Cushing) and Dr. David West (Edward Judd), a pair of scientists who specialize in things science-y and are just the kind of guys you want investigating a boneless murder, are called in to investigate. 

 

“I hope it’s not vampires. I hate vampires.”

The duo, along with the wealthy and charming Toni Merrill (Carole Gray), head to the island, where they quickly realize they’re dealing with something truly terrifying—giant, tentacled, turtle-like monsters called “Silicates.” What they discover is the work of monstrous, blob-like creatures called “Silicates,” an accidental byproduct of scientific experimentation gone horribly wrong. Once again, horror movies remind us that when scientists say, “This experiment will change the world!” they actually mean, “This experiment will turn people into Jell-O and release death turtles upon civilization.”

 

“Yes, there was definitely mad science going on here.”

As our heroes delve into the mystery, they uncover a horrifying truth: a scientist’s experiment to cure cancer has gone terribly wrong, resulting in the creation of these silicate creatures—tentacled, shell-like monstrosities that kill by draining calcium from their victims’ bodies. These creatures multiply rapidly, devouring the calcium from their victims and leaving behind limp, rubbery husks. As the creatures multiply and the island’s inhabitants are picked off one by one, Stanley, West, and the remaining survivors must devise a plan to destroy them before they spread beyond the island.

 

This “science” may not cure cancer, but it’s a great weight loss tool.

In one of the film’s most hilariously brutal moments, Dr. Stanley’s hand is seized by a tentacle and “BAM,” Dr. West is all “CHOP OFF HIS HAND!” No anesthetic, no hesitation—just a quick “Well, that’s gotta go” before whack with an axe. And then they go right back to business like it was a normal Tuesday. No matter what happens, Peter Cushing remains impeccably composed. Discovering a boneless corpse? Calmly inspects it. Realizing there are dozens of monsters? Sips tea and formulates a plan. Nearly dying in the finale? Slightly concerned but still dignified. The man could teach a masterclass in keeping it together.

 

“Could I bother someone for a cup of tea?”

Stray Observations:

• The terrifying, bone-slurping monsters shuffle along at roughly the speed of a Roomba with a dying battery. Yet somehow, they still manage to sneak up on people! It’s like watching someone lose a race to a moving ottoman.
• The entire village population is sheltering in a building, yet there appear to be no children. Is this a strange village of grown-ups only?
• When faced with an invasion of slow-moving, bone-dissolving creatures, you’d think someone would suggest leaving the island. But nope, apparently this island doesn’t even have a rowboat.
• Science creating creatures that stalk the inhabitants of a small community, draining them of important body parts, has a definite Fiend Without a Face vibe to it.
• Despite being top-tier researchers, Cushing and company have the survival instincts of a horror movie extra. They prod corpses, pick up suspicious goo, and get way too close to the monsters before realizing, “Oh no, they’re dangerous!” It’s like a masterclass in bad decision-making.

 

Cushing is the epitome of the British Badass.

Let’s be honest, the Silicates look like rubbery turtle shells with vacuum cleaner hoses attached, but the way they move and the eerie sound design make them unsettling, and the idea of having your bones liquefied by a slow-moving nightmare is far creepier than the actual execution, which does veer towards the goofy looking. That said, for 1966, the effects are surprisingly effective, plus, there’s an unsettling realism to how the islanders deal with this threat—desperation and scientific curiosity in equal measure – and it provides some solid moments of tension. One of the biggest strengths of Island of Terror is its eerie setting. The foggy, isolated island, combined with the creeping dread of an unseen menace, gives the film an almost Gothic horror feel, and it’s safe to say that Terence Fisher, best known for his Hammer horror films, knows how to build suspense with limited resources.

 

These creatures somehow manage to be both silly and creepy-looking.

Peter Cushing, as always, elevates the material. Even when faced with rubbery, tentacled monstrosities, he remains the ultimate professional—charming, intelligent, and always with a plan. Even when he’s delivering ridiculous lines about boneless corpses, he makes it sound absolutely believable. Edward Judd as Dr. West is a solid co-lead, bringing some charm and courage to the mix, though he lacks the charisma of Cushing, and Carole Gray adds some damsel-in-distress moments, though her character isn’t given much to do beyond looking terrified. She is the poster girl for why you shouldn’t bring a girlfriend on an expedition to investigate strange and unusual deaths.

 

This kind of thing never happens in Cancun.

In conclusion, Island of Terror is a classic example of ’60s sci-fi horror: eerie, imaginative, and a little goofy, but never dull. The concept alone is chilling, even if the execution occasionally borders on laughable. Despite its modest budget and occasionally dated effects, the film delivers a gripping, eerie experience, so if you love vintage horror, classic British sci-fi, or just want to see Peter Cushing battle bone-slurping abominations, this one is worth the watch.

Wolf Man (2025) – Review

With the success of Leigh Whannell’s 2020 film The Invisible Man, where he reimagined the classic Universal Monster through a contemporary lens, blending elements of horror with psychological and familial themes, sadly, despite his success in that outing, this reimagining falls flat on multiple fronts.

The film centres on Blake Lovell (Christopher Abbott), a San Francisco writer and stay-at-home father who is haunted by the mysterious disappearance of his estranged father, Grady (Sam Jaeger), Blake inherits his secluded childhood home nestled deep within the Oregon woods. Hoping to reconnect with his career-focused wife, Charlotte (Julia Garner), and their lively daughter, Ginger (Matilda Firth), Blake proposes a family retreat to this remote farmhouse. Of course, if Stephen King’s The Shining taught us anything, it’s that remote locations do not equal good family health. How could someone overlook such an obvious issue?

All work and no play makes Blake a dull wolf man.

As the family approaches the old homestead under the cover of night, they are suddenly attacked by an unseen creature, leaving Blake with a severe wound. They manage to take refuge inside the house, barricading themselves against the prowling menace outside. However, as the night progresses, Blake’s condition deteriorates alarmingly. He experiences a series of horrifying physical transformations: his teeth and hair fall out, his senses become unnaturally acute, and an overwhelming hunger begins to consume him. These changes suggest that Blake is undergoing a metamorphosis into a werewolf. At least that is what I think the script is suggesting, but I don’t quite buy it.

Maybe he just has cabin fever?

In a shocking twist – if you’ve never seen a movie before – it’s revealed that the creature responsible for Blake’s affliction is none other than his own father, Grady, who had succumbed to the same curse years prior. This revelation forces Blake to confront the terrifying possibility of inheriting his father’s monstrous fate. As Blake’s transformation nears completion, Charlotte faces an agonizing decision: can she protect her daughter from the external beast while grappling with the horrifying reality that her husband is becoming one himself?

Daddy issues reach new heights here.

Stray Observation:

• The moving company our characters use is called Pierce, which one must assume is a reference to legendary make-up artist Jack Pierce who created the Lon Chaney Jr. Wolf Man. And their tagline is “Getting a move on since 1941,” which is when the original film was released
• The “Body Horror” in this film is more in keeping with Cronenberg’s The Fly, as the transformation here takes place over a longer period of time than your typical werewolf transformation.
• The more human-looking werewolf design in this film has more in common with the 1935 film Werewolf of London, which also had a creature who could maintain a fair amount of human intelligence.
• The twist of the main Wolf-Man’s father also being a werewolf, as well as the one to infect him to boot, is taken straight from the 2010 remake.

“Dad, can we simply resolve our past issues and move on?”

On the acting side of things, Christopher Abbott does his best, but he’s stuck in a film that forces him to do little more than mope and occasionally snarl. While Abbott’s portrayal of Blake’s transformation is physically committed, it is emotionally hollow, failing to elicit empathy or fear. We were never given enough time to care for him as a character before he became infected. On the other hand, Julia Garner, who could have been the emotional core of the story, is wasted in a role that mostly requires her to look concerned and deliver exposition and is sadly relegated to the clichéd role of the distressed wife, offering little beyond screams and tears. Her and Abbott’s on-screen chemistry is virtually nonexistent, making it difficult to invest in their plight. The supporting cast is so forgettable that they might as well be listed in the credits as “Werewolf Chow #1” and “Exposition Neighbour.”

“Are you dealing with family trauma relating to the sins of your father?”

For a werewolf movie, Wolf Man is shockingly low on werewolves, and the ones we do get aren’t all that great. The transformation sequences are disappointingly sparse, and when they do happen, they rely on dim lighting and quick cuts to hide what is an embarrassingly underwhelming creature design. When the monster does finally get some screen time, it’s a bland, uninspired wolf-man hybrid that looks like it wandered off the set of a mid-budget Goosebumps episode and is more pitiable than terrifying. With such lacklustre effects and designs on display, fans of werewolf movies will most likely be disappointed in a creature that resembles a dishevelled human more than a fearsome werewolf.

Is this a werewolf or Jo-Jo the Dog-Faced Boy?

But even if I could forgive a weak “monster” design, I could not look past Leigh Whannell’s clumsy writing, which took itself far too seriously, with a script that kept shoving in half-baked metaphors about generational trauma and masculinity but then doing absolutely nothing interesting with them. You want horror? You want suspense? Too bad—most of the film is just Abbott brooding while Julia Garner looks increasingly exhausted (which, honestly, makes her the most relatable character).

Special shout-out to “Werewolf Vision” as that seemed to be the only new and remotely interesting element Whannell was able to bring to the project.

Of course, the greatest sin Whannell commits in Wolf Man is not trusting the audience to put two and two together. The theme of “sins of the father” is not subtly introduced into the plot. Nope, it’s spoken by several characters repeatedly, as if he were worried that the audience may have nodded off and missed the first five or six times this theme was brought up. The metaphor of lycanthropy as a degenerative illness is intriguing in theory, but it was executed in a way that felt forced and was completely ineffective, leading to unintentional comedy rather than profound commentary.

“Here’s Daddy?”

In conclusion, Whannell’s Wolf Man presents an intriguing premise, but the ham-fisted execution resulted in a toothless reboot that squanders its potential. With its uninspired plot, shallow characterizations, and weak creature design, the film fails to breathe new life into the iconic monster. It’s a forgettable entry in the horror genre that neither scares nor entertains.