By Sara Bright
Leigh Whannell’s Wulfman arrives not with a howl but a whimper – a brooding, blood-soaked meditation on inherited trauma that splits critics like an axe through pine. This $25 million reimagining of Universal’s 1941 The Wolf Man transplants the mythos to Oregon’s mist-shrouded forests, where Christopher Abbott’s struggling writer Blake grapples with paternal ghosts and a feral bite that unravels his civilised façade. More psychological chamber piece than creature feature, Whannell’s film polarises by privileging metaphor over monstrosity – a gamble that left box office returns as anaemic as its protagonist’s pallor.
Patriarchy’s Feral Legacy
Whannell, architect of The Invisible Man’s $150 million sleeper hit, wields lycanthropy as scalpel rather than sledgehammer. Blake’s transformation mirrors his toxic inheritance: flashbacks reveal a childhood steeped in the “sabre-toothed patriarchy” of Sam Jagger’s woodsman father, whose brutal lessons (“Never apologise”) haunt adult relationships. When Blake’s San Francisco life crumbles – stalled career, strained marriage to Julia Garner’s journalist Charlotte – the return to his derelict family cabin becomes Freudian nightmare. Whannell’s script (co-written with spouse Corbett Tuck) weaponises pandemic-era isolation, trapping viewers in creaking rooms where suppressed rage manifests in mangled taxidermy and claw-marked walls.
Practical Effects Reborn
Gorehounds craving Upgrade’s visceral flair won’t leave empty-handed. Prosthetics maestro Damien Martin (The Northman) delivers transformation sequences worthy of Rick Baker’s 1981 An American Werewolf in London legacy – tendons snap, jaws unhinge, and fur erupts in pus-filled bursts. Yet these moments startle through restraint: Whannell holds shots on Abbott’s agonised face, making audiences feel every vertebrae-cracking shift. The director’s admitted influences – from Kubrick’s The Shining to Glazer’s Under the Skin – surface in lingering compositions where forests become Rorschach tests, their shadows suggesting lupine shapes.
Horror’s New Class Divide
Beneath the fur lies sharp social critique. Blake’s metamorphosis parallels his economic emasculation – a failed novelist dwarfed by Charlotte’s success. “It’s not the 1950s,” she snaps when he questions her work trips, their crumbling McMansion symbolising neoliberal family decay. Whannell positions lycanthropy as blue-collar revolt: Blake’s final rampage targets tech-bro interlopers gentrifying his hometown, their Tesla charging stations and artisanal axe-throwing bars devoured by primal fury. This class-conscious angle – reminiscent of Get Out’s racial horror – feels timely amidst America’s rural/urban divide, though subtler than Jordan Peele’s allegories.
Universal’s Monster Misfire
The film’s $30 million global haul dashes hopes of reviving Universal’s Dark Universe – that abortive 2017 attempt to Marvel-ise classic monsters. Where 2020’s The Invisible Man succeeded through #MeToo relevance, Wulfman’s introspective tone clashes with current horror trends favouring Smile’s jump-scare maximalism or M3GAN’s campy thrills. Even the werewolf mythos feels outmoded next to A24’s folk-horror chic (The Witch) or The Last of Us’ fungal zombies. Whannell’s decision to screen Haneke’s Amour for cast and crew speaks volumes – this is arthouse anguish in creature feature clothing.
Abbott’s Transformative Snarl
The film’s salvation lies in Abbott’s career-best turn. His Blake channels early Pacino – all nervy tics and suppressed violence – with physicality recalling Brando’s Stanley Kowalski. Watch how his writer’s hands, initially delicate when tapping a keyboard, become taloned instruments of destruction. Matilda Firth, as daughter Ginger, provides heartbreaking counterpoint; her climactic realisation of paternal monstrosity outshocks any gore. Garner, underused as the exasperated wife, nonetheless nails a monologue about “the slow rot of disappointed love” that belongs in a Cassavetes film.
Sound Design’s Subversive Growl
Composer Jed Kurzel (Assassin’s Creed) swaps orchestral stings for disquieting ambience – creaking floorboards become heartbeat rhythms, wolf howls warp into human screams. A centrepiece transformation scene deploys “Sheep’s Clothing” by post-punk duo The Soft Moon, its industrial beats mirroring Blake’s psyche fracturing. Whannell, ever the Aussie grindhouse alumnus, subverts expectations: the inevitable full-moon rampage unfolds in terrified silence, the camera clinging to a victim’s POV as shadows dance.
Covid’s Cinematic Hangover
Released four years post-pandemic, Wulfman crystallises lockdown cinema’s obsessions. The remote cabin setting echoes The Batman’s Gotham quarantine, while Blake’s isolation-induced psychosis mirrors Men’s rural nightmares. Whannell shot during Omicron’s peak, and the paranoia seeps through – masks appear briefly, Charlotte’s Zoom interviews underscore marital distance. Yet unlike 2022’s cathartic “back to cinemas” horror hits (Nope, X), this feels like a relic of that claustrophobic era – a quality that alienated crowds craving communal scares.
Future of the Pack
While Wulfman falters commercially, its DNA may yet infect future horror. The script’s focus on inherited trauma – generational curses replacing silver bullets – aligns with Hereditary’s brand of familial terror. Rumours swirl of A24 acquiring remake rights for Robert Eggers, while Mia Goth’s name trends as potential lead in a gender-flipped sequel. For Universal, the lesson is clear: today’s monsters must reflect cultural anxieties beyond nostalgia. As Blake growls while torch-wielding townsfolk descend, one senses not just a dying beast, but the old studio model’s last gasp – a system that valued IP over ideas, now bleeding out in Oregon’s mud.
Whether Whannell’s vision finds its audience remains uncertain. Like the lycanthrope myth itself, Wulfman lingers in twilight – too arthouse for multiplex crowds, too gnarly for Oscar voters. Yet decades from now, when the next cinephile werewolf emerges, they’ll trace their lineage not to Lon Chaney’s paw prints, but to Abbott’s broken man howling at a moonlit Tesla.
