Roman Polanski’s The Fearless Vampire Killers is a peculiar beast, blending gothic horror and slapstick comedy into a vampire spoof that is as visually enchanting as it is narratively uneven. It’s a film that delights in poking fun at the vampire mythos, with Polanski both behind the camera and in front of it as the bumbling Alfred, assistant to Jack MacGowran’s delightfully eccentric Professor Abronsius.
The story follows the duo as they stumble into a Transylvanian village under the shadow of Count von Krolock’s castle, only to face more trouble than they bargained for. The film’s humour is often subtle, relying on awkward encounters and physical comedy, though some jokes fall flat or drag longer than necessary.
What The Fearless Vampire Killers lacks in consistent laughs, it makes up for in its lush visuals. Cinematographer Douglas Slocombe creates a wintry gothic wonderland, with the production design perfectly capturing the decaying opulence of von Krolock’s castle. The masquerade ball scene, in particular, is a strikingly macabre highlight.
While Polanski’s direction and Sharon Tate’s charming turn as Sarah elevate the material, the film struggles to balance its comedic and horror elements, leaving it feeling slightly disjointed. Despite this, it remains an enjoyable curiosity, worth a watch for its unique take on vampire lore and its visual flair.
1974’s Abby stands as a fascinating relic of the era when blaxploitation and supernatural horror collided. Directed by William Girdler, the film boldly reimagines the well-trodden possession narrative, placing it within an African-American cultural framework and tying it to Yoruba mythology. Though often overshadowed by its legal battles with The Exorcist, Abby has carved a niche as a cult classic with its unique voice, energetic performances, and genre-blurring audacity.
A Tale of Chaos and Possession
The story begins with Dr. Garrett Williams (William Marshall), a theologian and archaeologist, discovering a mysterious puzzle box in Nigeria tied to Eshu, a Yoruba orisha of chaos. Unwittingly unleashing the spirit, it travels across the globe to Kentucky, where it takes possession of Abby Williams (Carol Speed), the wife of his son, Reverend Emmett Williams (Terry Carter). Abby’s life spirals into chaos as she becomes increasingly erratic, seductive, and violent under the spirit’s influence.
While Abby borrows heavily from The Exorcist, it differentiates itself by replacing Christian demonology with African mythology. This cultural shift adds depth to the narrative, even if the film doesn’t delve too deeply into Yoruba traditions. Girdler and co-writer Gordon Cornell Layne’s approach leaves some ambiguity, particularly about the spirit’s true nature and motivations. However, this vagueness fuels discussions among fans and scholars alike, lending the film a curious mystique.
A Triumph of Energy Over Execution
Carol Speed delivers a performance that is both committed and chaotic, fully embracing Abby’s physical and emotional transformation. Her portrayal of a woman wrestling with possession is electrifying, even as the low-budget effects occasionally undercut the film’s intended horror. William Marshall, best known as Blacula, lends gravitas to the production, imbuing Dr. Williams with an authoritative presence. His effort to bring authenticity to the Yoruba elements of the story is commendable, even if the script doesn’t always support his aspirations.
Director William Girdler crafts a lively if uneven film, blending exploitation tropes with supernatural themes. The film’s tonal shifts—from horror to campy melodrama—make it hard to take seriously, but they also add to its charm. Girdler’s choice to frame the possession around a sex spirit adds a layer of taboo that gives Abby a distinct flavor within the genre, even as it teeters on the edge of absurdity.
Controversy and Legacy
Despite grossing $4 million in its first month, Abby was famously pulled from theaters after Warner Bros. accused it of being a rip-off of The Exorcist. While Girdler admitted to riding the coattails of the 1973 blockbuster, Abby offers enough originality to stand apart. Its use of Yoruba mythology and the blaxploitation framework make it a unique cultural artifact of 1970s cinema.
The film’s success, albeit brief, demonstrated the viability of horror films targeting Black audiences, even as legal and cultural challenges constrained its distribution. Its scarcity for decades only amplified its cult status, with fans seeking out bootleg copies to experience its idiosyncratic blend of horror and blaxploitation.
Viewed through the lens of history, Abby is a film of contradictions—both derivative and inventive, serious and campy, empowering and exploitative. While it falls short of greatness due to uneven execution and limited budget, its cultural significance and unrestrained energy make it an essential watch for genre enthusiasts.
Fifty years later, Abby remains a curious, imperfect gem, a testament to the creative possibilities that arise when horror meets blaxploitation. It’s a whirlwind of chaos, much like Eshu himself, leaving a lasting impression even amidst its flaws.
José Mojica Marins, the macabre mind behind the infamous Coffin Joe persona, takes an ambitious meta-narrative turn with The Bloody Exorcism of Coffin Joe. This 1974 feature is a surreal descent into madness that blurs the lines between reality and fiction, combining bizarre horror and religious allegory. While not officially part of the “Coffin Joe trilogy,” the film captures the spirit of Marins’ grotesque vision, albeit with mixed results.
A Meta-Horror Experiment Marins portrays himself, crafting a narrative where his fictional alter ego, Coffin Joe, transcends the screen and manifests in terrifying reality. This meta approach is intriguing, allowing Marins to explore his own creation’s mythology while engaging in self-reflection. The plot, however, is a chaotic jumble of satanic rituals, black masses, and exorcisms, all set against a backdrop of low-budget effects and erratic pacing.
The film’s most striking moments occur during its feverish black mass sequence, where Coffin Joe emerges to preside over a cacophony of torture, topless dancers, and surreal imagery. These scenes are unsettling and unrestrained, evoking a visceral reaction, but they teeter on the edge of indulgence, making the experience feel more disjointed than cohesive.
Strengths and Shortcomings Marins’ direction is unmistakably his own—raw, eccentric, and unapologetic. The use of practical effects and atmospheric lighting imbues the film with a haunting aesthetic, despite its glaring technical flaws. However, the inconsistent sound editing and awkward dialogue often break immersion, highlighting the limitations of its production.
The performances range from passable to over-the-top, with Marins commanding the screen whenever Coffin Joe is present. The supporting cast, including Ariane Arantes as Vilma and Wanda Kosmo as the witch, deliver spirited performances, though they are often overshadowed by the film’s chaotic narrative.
Themes of Faith and Fear The juxtaposition of Christian iconography and satanic rituals provides a thematic backbone, exploring humanity’s eternal struggle between good and evil. The climax, where Marins wields a crucifix to vanquish Coffin Joe and his followers, is as absurd as it is symbolic. Yet, this resolution feels rushed, leaving the philosophical implications of the story underdeveloped.
Legacy and Impact The Bloody Exorcism of Coffin Joe is a fascinating yet flawed entry in Marins’ oeuvre. It doesn’t reach the heights of his earlier works like At Midnight I’ll Take Your Soul but remains a testament to his audacious creativity. The meta-narrative approach was ahead of its time, paving the way for modern genre films that break the fourth wall.
For fans of Coffin Joe, this film is a must-watch for its exploration of the character’s mythology. For others, it might feel like an incoherent fever dream, held together by flashes of brilliance amidst the chaos. Regardless, Marins’ ability to provoke and unsettle ensures that The Bloody Exorcism of Coffin Joe retains its place as a curious artifact of Brazilian horror cinema.
When Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein debuted in 1994, Kenneth Branagh’s adaptation of the seminal novel seemed like a breath of fresh air for gothic cinema. Positioned as a faithful retelling of Shelley’s groundbreaking work, the film’s operatic tone, lavish production design, and reverence for its source material made it feel like an audacious attempt to elevate gothic horror into a grand cinematic spectacle. Thirty years on, however, while the film retains its place as a fascinating adaptation, time has revealed both its achievements and its missteps.
Branagh, who directed and starred as Victor Frankenstein, approached the material with a larger-than-life theatricality, pouring a seemingly unrestrained passion into the story. At the time, this intensity felt like a bold choice, giving audiences a film steeped in gothic aesthetics, from sweeping landscapes and haunting laboratories to thunderous scores and unrelenting melodrama. But in hindsight, the weight of Branagh’s vision comes across as excessive. The film’s relentless emotional intensity often teeters on overwrought, with every confrontation, revelation, and tragedy turned up to operatic levels. While this approach may have felt daring in 1994, it now feels like it undermines some of the subtler complexities of Shelley’s narrative.
Yet, there are elements of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein that remain undeniably effective. The performances of Robert De Niro as the Creature and Helena Bonham Carter as Elizabeth elevate the film beyond its uneven execution. De Niro’s portrayal of the Creature is deeply affecting, bringing an unexpected humanity and pathos to the role. His embodiment of Shelley’s philosophical questions about creation, abandonment, and revenge remains one of the film’s most enduring strengths. Similarly, Bonham Carter imbues Elizabeth with a warmth and intelligence that makes her tragic arc all the more harrowing, particularly in the film’s climactic and macabre finale.
Visually, the film continues to impress. Its production design, helmed by Tim Harvey, crafts an immersive gothic world, from the icy Arctic wastes to the shadowy confines of Victor’s laboratory. Patrick Doyle’s score, a bombastic and emotive accompaniment, heightens the film’s gothic grandeur, even as it sometimes amplifies the melodrama.
Ultimately, Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein is a film of contradictions: innovative yet excessive, faithful yet flawed. Its ambition to stay true to the novel’s thematic depths deserves admiration, but Branagh’s unchecked directorial choices leave the narrative buckling under the weight of its own gravitas.
Thirty years later, it remains an intriguing, if imperfect, entry in gothic cinema, a reminder of both the power and perils of artistic vision. For all its faults, it is still an enjoyable film and one that warrants revisiting—if only to marvel at its audacity and revel in the brilliance of De Niro and Bonham Carter.
Quatermass and the Pit remains a shining gem in Hammer Films’ crown, a film that blends science fiction and horror with cerebral depth and visual ingenuity. Directed by Roy Ward Baker, this adaptation of Nigel Kneale’s acclaimed television serial proves that ambition and creativity can transcend budgetary limitations. It’s no surprise that this film holds a special place in the hearts of Hammer aficionados, delivering a gripping narrative, a stellar cast, and thought-provoking themes.
The story unfolds with the discovery of a mysterious, ancient object buried in the London Underground. What begins as an archeological curiosity quickly escalates into a tale of extraterrestrial origins, latent human fears, and societal unrest. At its core is Professor Bernard Quatermass, played with intellectual gravitas by Andrew Keir. Keir’s portrayal is a departure from the earlier portrayals of Quatermass, bringing a rugged charm and authoritative presence to the role that anchors the film amidst its fantastical elements.
The supporting cast is equally impressive. Barbara Shelley shines as the determined and empathetic Barbara Judd, while James Donald delivers a measured performance as Dr. Roney. The interplay between these characters adds emotional depth to the high-concept narrative, grounding its more outlandish moments in genuine human concern.
Roy Ward Baker’s direction is deft, maximising the tension and scale of the story despite the limited resources available. The film’s practical effects and set design, while dated by modern standards, still evoke a sense of awe and unease. The scenes depicting the alien memories and the climactic chaos in the streets of London are particular standouts, showcasing Baker’s ability to create atmosphere and spectacle on a shoestring budget.
Yet, the film’s greatest strength lies in its themes. Quatermass and the Pit explores the intersection of science and mythology, probing the origins of human fear and violence with a sophistication rarely seen in genre cinema. The idea that humanity’s darker impulses could be the legacy of ancient Martian colonists is as compelling as it is chilling, making this more than just a monster movie.
That said, the film isn’t without its flaws. The pacing can drag in places, and the special effects, though imaginative, may elicit more smiles than gasps for contemporary audiences. Additionally, the film’s heavy reliance on exposition can occasionally slow the momentum, as characters explain rather than experience the unfolding events.
Despite these shortcomings, Quatermass and the Pit remains a triumph of ingenuity and ambition. It’s a testament to Hammer Films’ ability to elevate genre storytelling, proving that thought-provoking ideas and strong performances can resonate long after the credits roll. For fans of intelligent, atmospheric horror, this is a must-watch, standing tall as one of Hammer’s most intriguing offerings.
In the annals of cult cinema and alternative media, few names resonate with as much chaotic charm as Troma Entertainment. Founded by Lloyd Kaufman and Michael Herz in 1974, Troma carved a niche with its low-budget, boundary-pushing films that celebrated the absurd, the grotesque, and the unapologetically bizarre. At the heart of this madcap legacy stands Toxie—the Toxic Avenger—a mop-wielding mutant superhero who became the unlikeliest of icons. The journey from The Toxic Avenger (1984) to Toxic Crusader, a 1991 animated series, encapsulates Troma’s unique blend of irreverence, resilience, and impact on both cult and mainstream pop culture.
The Genesis of Toxie: From Outcast to Cult Hero
Toxie was born out of The Toxic Avenger, Troma’s quintessential splatter comedy. A grotesque, hilarious, and surprisingly heartfelt story about Melvin Ferd, a bullied janitor who falls into a vat of toxic waste and emerges as a disfigured yet heroic defender of Tromaville, the film epitomised Troma’s ethos. It combined slapstick humour, over-the-top violence, and biting satire on societal ills, creating a unique genre hybrid that earned a cult following.
Toxie’s appeal lay in his paradoxical nature: a hideous figure with an unwavering moral compass, he represented the underdog and the misfit, becoming a symbol of empowerment for audiences drawn to outsider narratives.
Toxic Crusader: Troma Goes Mainstream
In an improbable twist, Toxie leaped into the sanitised world of Saturday morning cartoons with Toxic Crusader. Aimed at children, the animated series toned down the original’s gruesome violence and bawdy humour while amplifying its environmentalist message. Toxie and his band of equally mutated friends fought against the villainous Dr. Killemoff and his polluting cohorts, creating an ecologically conscious narrative well ahead of its time.
While the show only ran for 13 episodes, its colorful characters, zany humour, and merchandising—including action figures, video games, and lunchboxes—cemented Toxie’s place in pop culture. The series introduced Troma’s sensibilities to a wider audience, planting seeds of appreciation for the bizarre among a new generation.
Lloyd Kaufman and the Troma Legacy
Lloyd Kaufman, Troma’s eccentric co-founder and the mastermind behind The Toxic Avenger, has been the driving force behind the studio’s enduring legacy. Known for his DIY ethic and irreverent humour, Kaufman turned Troma into a beacon for independent filmmakers. His advocacy for free expression and independence has inspired countless creatives, cementing his reputation as a counterculture icon.
Troma’s commitment to low-budget filmmaking and guerrilla marketing ensured its survival in a rapidly changing industry. Kaufman’s insistence on creative control over profit-seeking has allowed Troma to remain a unique voice in cinema, untainted by mainstream trends.
Toxie’s Impact: The Cult That Never Fades
The legacy of Toxie and The Toxic Avenger extends far beyond its initial release. It has spawned sequels, a musical adaptation, comic books, and even a forthcoming reboot directed by Macon Blair, with Peter Dinklage stepping into the titular role.
Toxie’s environmental crusades in Toxic Crusader predated the widespread eco-awareness of the 21st century, proving remarkably prescient. Meanwhile, the character’s embrace of his imperfections resonates in a media landscape increasingly focused on diversity and inclusion.
Troma’s influence, embodied by Toxie, is visible in the works of filmmakers like James Gunn, who began his career with Troma, and Quentin Tarantino, who has openly praised Kaufman’s films. Their commitment to pushing boundaries and celebrating the unconventional owes much to the trails blazed by Troma.
The Toxic Avenger and its animated offshoot, Toxic Crusader, epitomise the idiosyncratic charm of Troma Entertainment. Toxie’s evolution from an R-rated antihero to a child-friendly champion of the environment showcases the versatility of Kaufman’s vision and the enduring appeal of the bizarre.
As the reboot looms on the horizon, there’s no better time to revisit Toxie’s origins and celebrate the studio that brought him to life. Troma Pictures and Lloyd Kaufman remain unyielding in their commitment to subversive storytelling, proving that even in the face of an ever-changing cinematic landscape, the cult of Toxie—and Troma—remains gloriously toxic.
Released in 1999, Idle Hands arrived as a devilishly fun blend of stoner comedy, horror, and absurdity, teetering between grotesque and hilarious. Directed by Rodman Flender and starring Devon Sawa, Jessica Alba, and Seth Green, the film was an unapologetically offbeat addition to the horror-comedy subgenre. Though it stumbled at the box office upon release, Idle Hands has since carved out a well-deserved place as a cult classic.
The story follows Anton Tobias (Sawa), a quintessential slacker whose biggest ambition is mastering couch-potato life. However, his world turns upside down when his right hand becomes possessed by a demonic force, leading to a blood-soaked yet darkly comic rampage. The plot’s absurdity is matched only by its inventive execution, with scenes of gory chaos balanced by laugh-out-loud moments.
A Time Capsule of Late ’90s Culture
Idle Hands is a perfect time capsule of the late ’90s, complete with its slacker ethos, grungy aesthetic, and soundtrack brimming with alt-rock gems from The Offspring and others. The casting of Devon Sawa as the lovable anti-hero and a young Jessica Alba as the girl-next-door love interest cemented the film’s appeal to the MTV generation.
Seth Green and Elden Henson deliver standout performances as Anton’s undead best friends, Mick and Pnub, whose comedic timing and irreverence inject the film with a zany energy. Their undead antics, combined with Sawa’s physical comedy as he battles his own rebellious hand, remain some of the film’s most memorable aspects.
Cult Appeal: A Horror-Comedy with Staying Power
While critics initially panned Idle Hands, its ridicule, gore, and stoner humour resonated with audiences looking for something different. The film’s blend of horror and comedy struck a chord in an era dominated by self-serious teen slashers like Scream and I Know What You Did Last Summer.
Over the years, Idle Hands has gained a loyal fanbase who appreciate its quirky charm and unapologetic weirdness. The film’s over-the-top kills, grotesque humour, and ironic take on demonic possession have made it a favourite for late-night viewings and Halloween marathons.
A Flawed but Enduring Favourite
Though Idle Hands has its flaws—pacing issues and a somewhat uneven tone—it embraces its campy identity with gusto. The practical effects, including the grotesque antics of Anton’s possessed hand, are a testament to the film’s creativity, even on a modest budget.
For fans of horror-comedy, Idle Hands remains a hidden gem. Its unapologetic impertinence, nostalgic charm, and cult status ensure that it continues to find new audiences who revel in its absurdity. If nothing else, the film serves as a reminder: idle hands really are the devil’s playthings—and they’re a hell of a lot of fun to watch.
1967’s Torture Garden is another anthology effort from Amicus Productions, helmed by director Freddie Francis, who was no stranger to the world of macabre storytelling. With a screenplay by Robert Bloch, celebrated author of Psycho, and a strong ensemble cast that includes Jack Palance, Burgess Meredith, and Peter Cushing, one might expect Torture Garden to be a standout in the horror anthology genre. Instead, it’s an uneven affair that delivers moments of intrigue and terror but ultimately fails to coalesce into something memorable.
The film’s wraparound story features Burgess Meredith as Dr. Diabolo, a sinister showman luring customers into a carnival exhibit that reveals horrifying visions of their possible fates. This setup, while atmospheric, feels oddly rushed, robbing the overarching narrative of the gravity it desperately needs. Meredith’s performance is delightfully theatrical, adding a touch of charm to an otherwise underwhelming framing device.
As with many anthologies, the success of Torture Garden hinges on the strength of its individual segments. Of the four tales presented, The Man Who Collected Poe stands out for its inspired premise and the committed performances of Jack Palance and Peter Cushing. Their shared obsession over Edgar Allan Poe memorabilia creates a gripping dynamic that feels genuinely unsettling. However, the other stories—ranging from a cursed piano to a deadly feline—vary in quality, with some verging on the ludicrous.
Freddie Francis’s direction is steady but uninspired, lacking the visual flair he brought to earlier works like The Evil of Frankenstein or The Skull. The production design, though serviceable, feels constrained by the film’s modest budget, and the cinematography struggles to evoke the same haunting atmosphere found in Francis’s better efforts.
Robert Bloch’s writing, while clever in places, leans too heavily on moralistic twists that can feel predictable or forced. The result is a collection of tales that often amuse or provoke thought but rarely terrify.
Torture Garden remains a curious entry in the horror anthology tradition—a film that entertains in parts but falters as a cohesive whole. For fans of Freddie Francis or Amicus Productions, it’s worth a watch as a time capsule of late-60s horror. However, for those seeking a truly chilling experience, it’s unlikely to leave much of an impression.
Few films are as unique, unsettling, and criminally overlooked as Antonia Bird’s Ravenous. Released in 1999 to lukewarm box office reception, this macabre tale of survival, morality, and hunger has since gained a well-deserved cult following. With its haunting blend of black comedy, psychological horror, and frontier drama, Ravenous is an underappreciated masterpiece that deserves to be unearthed and devoured anew.
Set in the snow-covered Sierra Nevada during the Mexican-American War, the film follows Captain John Boyd (Guy Pearce), a disgraced officer banished to a remote fort after an act of cowardice. The arrival of a mysterious stranger, Colqhoun (Robert Carlyle), brings tales of cannibalism and survival, drawing Boyd and his garrison into a gruesome battle of wits and wills.
The cast of Ravenous is nothing short of exceptional. Guy Pearce delivers a subdued yet compelling performance as Boyd, capturing the inner torment of a man battling both his past and a growing, dark temptation. Robert Carlyle is electrifying as Colqhoun, oscillating between charm and menace with unnerving ease. The supporting cast, including Jeffrey Jones, David Arquette, and Jeremy Davies, adds depth and eccentricity to the ensemble, grounding the film’s wild tonal shifts.
Antonia Bird’s direction masterfully balances the film’s disparate elements. The unsettling atmosphere of isolation and dread is punctuated by moments of pitch-black humour, creating a viewing experience that is as unpredictable as it is gripping. The gore is sparingly but effectively used, amplifying the tension without overwhelming the narrative.
Special mention must be made of the score by Michael Nyman and Damon Albarn, which is as eclectic as the film itself. The music ranges from eerie strings to jaunty, unsettling melodies, perfectly mirroring the story’s shifts between horror, satire, and tragedy.
At its core, Ravenous is a meditation on survival and the lengths to which desperation—and hunger, both literal and metaphorical—can drive people. The film’s exploration of cannibalism transcends its shock value, delving into themes of power, consumption, and the thin veneer of civilisation.
Despite its rich narrative and strong performances, Ravenous was sadly underappreciated upon release. Perhaps it was too unconventional for mainstream audiences or too darkly comedic for horror purists. Whatever the reason, its failure to find its audience at the time is a loss for the genre.
Viewed today, Ravenous stands out as a forgotten gem, a film that dares to blend horror, humour, and historical drama into a biting critique of human nature. For those who missed it the first time around—or for those ready to revisit its twisted brilliance—it’s a feast worth savouring.
Mike Nichols’ Wolf offers a refreshingly mature and layered take on the werewolf mythos, eschewing the usual gore-laden spectacle for a story steeped in psychological tension, power dynamics, and human frailty. Released in 1994, this film remains a unique entry in the genre, owing much to its stellar cast and Nichols’ seasoned direction.
Jack Nicholson commands the screen as Will Randall, a middle-aged book editor whose life takes a supernatural turn after a wolf bite. Nicholson’s performance brims with subtle menace, capturing Will’s transformation with restraint and depth. It’s a testament to his range that he can imbue the character with both primal ferocity and wry charm, making this a werewolf we root for as much as we fear.
Michelle Pfeiffer is magnetic as Laura Alden, bringing a sharp wit and vulnerability to her role as the love interest caught in the storm of Will’s transformation. Her chemistry with Nicholson elevates the film, adding a touch of sensuality to the story. James Spader delivers a delightfully slimy performance as Stewart Swinton, Will’s duplicitous protégé whose ambition sets him on a collision course with his boss. Christopher Plummer’s turn as the calculating Raymond Alden rounds out the cast, his gravitas lending weight to the corporate intrigue that simmers beneath the surface.
Nichols approaches the age-old tale of lycanthropy with a refined touch, framing the werewolf curse as an allegory for midlife crises and primal urges buried beneath layers of societal decorum. The film’s central themes of power, betrayal, and rediscovery are enhanced by its corporate setting, where the hunt for dominance plays out not in forests but in boardrooms.
The cinematography by Giuseppe Rotunno is striking, particularly the way he uses shadow and light to emphasise Will’s growing connection to the animal within. Ennio Morricone’s score complements the mood perfectly, adding an eerie elegance to the proceedings.
However, Wolf is not without its shortcomings. The pacing falters at times, and the climactic showdown, while entertaining, leans into genre tropes that feel at odds with the film’s otherwise restrained tone. Additionally, the film’s blend of horror and drama doesn’t always coalesce seamlessly, leaving some moments feeling disjointed.
Despite these flaws, Wolf remains a compelling and underappreciated gem. It’s a film that dares to take a sophisticated approach to a well-trodden myth, exploring the beast within with intelligence and style. For fans of Nicholson, Pfeiffer, or anyone seeking a thoughtful twist on werewolf lore, Wolf still has plenty of bite.
