THE WOLFMAN (2010) is cursed, lycanthropically and cinematically

Posted by Stephen Jannise

When The Wolfman was first announced, I allowed my hopes to soar. As a big fan of Francis Ford Coppola’s Bram Stoker’s Dracula, which had been produced by Columbia Pictures and Coppola’s American Zoetrope, I was excited that Universal was going to stage an expensive tribute of its own for one of the beloved movie monsters that Universal first popularized in the 1930s. Many of the elements of Coppola’s film reappear in the new Wolfman production: picturesque cinematography, an elegant score, and the cream of the acting crop (Anthony Hopkins, who played Van Helsing in the Coppola film, appears again here as Sir John Talbot, the titular protagonist’s father). However, I am sad to report that, where Coppola and Columbia Pictures succeeded, Universal has failed to pay its respects to one of the creatures that carried it through the Great Depression.

First, I’ll discuss the aforementioned cream of the acting crop. I have never before thought to myself while watching a film, “This group has truly distinguished itself as the worst ensemble cast of the year.” Usually, no matter how bad a film is, there is at least one decent or campy or off-beat performance that you can cling to until the torment ends. But not in this case: the entire cast of The Wolfman, from star Benicio Del Toro down to the lowliest extra, is uniformly deserving of scorn.

I miss you too, Lon Chaney Jr.

I ran through a couple of scenarios in my head that might explain how these actors, each of whom has been compelling in other films, came to create these utterly emotionless characters. The performances are so bad that I genuinely began to wonder if the director had done something to offend the cast, after which they decided to take their revenge by sabotaging the movie with monotone line readings and rigid body language.

I also considered the possibility that Del Toro, like his cursed character, had infected the rest of the cast with his particular acting method. Del Toro has become known for his silent brooding, which has resulted in an inconsistent career; he will give a riveting performance in one film and a dull one in the next (Sometimes he can elicit both reactions from the same film; see the mixed thoughts about his performance in Soderbergh’s Che). His performance here is decidedly on the dull side; even though he is a producer on the film, he doesn’t seem to really care about this movie or this character. His performance feels effortless, in a bad way.

Meanwhile, Anthony Hopkins appears determined to match the plodding performance of his counterpart; Hopkins, who has chewed the scenery with great vigor in the past, doesn’t even have a nibble here. These two equally careless performances result in some of the most remarkably rotten conversational scenes I’ve seen in a contemporary studio film. At times, in fact, it genuinely seems as though the two are not having a conversation so much as standing in the same room, taking turns saying words out loud. The thoughts and emotions of each character don’t seem to register with the other, and the same can be said of the cold, unblooming romance between Del Toro and Emily Blunt. And don’t get me started on Hugo Weaving’s pointless Victorian Agent Smith.

I'll say something, then you say something. It'll look like we're talking to each other!

Even more offensive than the acting, though, is Universal’s decision to resurrect this franchise not as an atmospheric, supernatural horror film but as a mere slasher film, albeit with a hairier-than-usual murderer. The film is overrun with gaudy jump scares (I lost count of how many times the family dog gives the characters a fright), and the much ballyhooed R rating has given the filmmakers free reign to fill the movie with unnecessarily copious amounts of blood and death scenes that would be more appropriate for the sequel to My Bloody Valentine 3-D. Too bad they didn’t use that R rating to deal candidly with adult issues or inject some much needed sex into the limp love story.

In a madhouse dream, Del Toro imagines what Blunt might look like in a less buttoned-up movie.

About an hour into the film, a tiny spark of life begins to flicker when a plot twist (hint: Del Toro isn’t the only wolf in the Talbot hen house this time) and a crazy trip-out sequence (when we learn that Del Toro’s character wouldn’t mind some R-rated time with Emily Blunt) finally bring something interesting to the table. But believe me, by that point, you will have nurtured such hatred for this film that these new concepts will be too little, too late. Consider this my first big disappointment of the year. But don’t fret: this weekend brings us Martin Scorsese’s Shutter Island, and I just know Marty is going to give us a thriller worth getting excited about. I should know, I’ve already seen it.