Joe Johnston's "The Wolfman," a remake of the classic 1941 horror film of the same name, is a movie that acknowledges its limitations. By accepting its status as a remade, unapologetically B−grade flick, "The Wolfman" eschews the prestige it might have obtained as an innovative or psychological thriller. The result is a dark, gory and visually decadent film that promises to heartily entertain audiences before being banished to the realm of televised Halloween movie marathons.
When Lawrence Talbot (Benicio del Toro) receives a letter from his brother's fiancée informing him that his brother, Ben (Simon Merrells), is missing, Lawrence returns to his childhood home to help locate Ben. Upon Lawrence's arrival, his long−estranged father informs him that his brother is dead, the hapless victim of an unknown, savage beast. Lawrence then meets Ben's fiancée, the lovely and disconsolate Gwen Conliffe (Emily Blunt), and her distress cements his resolve to discover and kill his brother's murderer — a decision that leads him to a fate infinitely more horrifying than his brother's.
At a local pub, Lawrence hears whispered rumors that a half−wolf, half−man creature is behind a string of local murders. He seeks confirmation of this supernatural speculation at a gypsy camp, but his efforts are interrupted by the lycanthrope itself. After the werewolf pillages the village, Lawrence chases it deep into the forest, emerging with a bite wound that, come next moon, will awaken the brutal fiend within him.
The film benefits enormously from an incredibly talented cast. Lawrence's character is a complex one. A number of references to Shakespeare in the film paint Lawrence as a sort of supernatural Hamlet — a good man driven to animalistic madness. Like Hamlet, Lawrence is complicated: traumatized at a young age by the apparent suicide of his mother, and later institutionalized for unspecified reasons, he certainly does not want for skeletons in his closet.
Del Toro's performance is accordingly prismatic. Quiet, timid and virtuous, Lawrence is the quintessence of a man trying to heal but still seemingly sane — except for one day of the lunar cycle, of course.
Cast in the role of Lawrence's outwardly eccentric and inwardly psychopathic father, John, Anthony Hopkins raises hair on the back of even the bravest filmgoer's neck. As his son awakens from his first night as a wolf, disoriented and stained with the blood of innocents, John looms over him, his eyes deadened and smile eerily calm. He informs his horrified child, "You've done terrible things, Lawrence. Terrible, terrible things." So powerful is Hopkins' portrayal of a conscienceless madman that the flat, mocking tone of his voice is even more bloodcurdling than the film's grisliest murder.
Even more delightful than the commendable acting is the film's veritable inundation of neo−noir eye candy. The ornately gothic and highly stylized scenery serves the audience a savory visual meal. The Talbots' run−down estate is one instance of those above−and−beyond aesthetic treats. With its eclectic menagerie of ostentatious and expensive−looking knickknacks, the mansion is an archeological dig site of dilapidated splendor.
The nightmarishly beautiful special effects are a guilty pleasure in their own right. As Lawrence sinks deeper into the horror of a werewolf's life, he has a string of fear−begotten delusions that include a deformed and feral lycanthropic child, ready to pounce, and the coming−to−life of a statue of his dead mother. With her white, marble throat slit, she reaches imploringly toward her cursed son with surreally exquisite arms. Somehow, the fruitlessness of her efforts makes Lawrence's anguish increasingly palpable.
These elaborate backdrops and special effects are amplified through the use of strategic lighting. Often in the film, light strikes only a section of the shot, condemning the rest of the picture into a disquieting darkness.
The selective lighting technique both enhances the museum−like quality of the opulent Victorian setting and emphasizes the undercurrents of uncertainty and madness that pulse through the script. For Lawrence's character, this use of partial illumination also evokes the feeling that his environment harbors openly hostile feelings toward him, and a viewer feels that at any moment a tree or a statue might spring alive to attack the forlorn antihero.
That sinister mood elevates each terrifying action from merely frightening to viscerally unsettling. Of course the blood−spurting wounds inflicted by gnarled werewolf claws should elicit an easy scream, but because the audience is already on edge beforehand, each bite and laceration strikes its senses like a mallet does a gong.
The psychological connection to the viewer is remarkable. When Lawrence is subjected to waterboarding torture as a treatment for his alleged insanity, the air in the movie theater actually seems to deplete. The gap between the characters and the viewers is adroitly, if sometimes painfully, bridged.
With its fantastic cast and dazzling cinematography, the film promises an uncritical viewer a good time. What the movie does, it does well. Unfortunately, it still settles comfortably in its B−grade mold instead of trying to break free. "The Wolfman" can only do so much and is unlikely to ever be knighted a classic film.
