d. Fred F. Sears (1956)
Cheaply but carefully made, The Werewolf
provides a surprisingly contemporary retelling of the hoary old lycanthropic
legend, placing the action in Smalltown USA and making it a condition of mad
modern science rather than arcane folklore.
The origins of the werewolf are somewhat odd,
with responsibility falling to a couple of fascist scientists who plan to outlive
the impending nuclear apocalypse by combining human genes with the survival
traits of other successful species. When a timid salesman injured in a car
crash falls unexpectedly into their clutches they ruthlessly inject him with a
syringe full of lupine essence and sit back ready to note down the results.
Their victim escapes, of course, and trudges
through the snow to the small ski resort town of Mountaincrest. Here, the poor,
frightened fellow transforms into a ravenous, drooling wolf: a hairy, hungry
killing machine. The townspeople, dressed almost exclusively in plaid, form a
posse to track him down.
The werewolf spends most of his time
running, but never really gets anywhere, not least because there’s nowhere to
go. In his old life he was a nice man with a wife and a son but now he is a crazed
killer, a beast who inadvertently seals his fate by ripping apart the scientists who made
him like this in the first place. With literally no turning back, he ends up full
of yokel bullets, a bloodied heap of hair. His dying act is to revert to
his human form, a pitiful and questioning look upon his face.
It’s rather a depressing spectacle, but then werewolf films never have happy endings, they just don’t work that way.
It’s rather a depressing spectacle, but then werewolf films never have happy endings, they just don’t work that way.
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