"It's not hard to die."
Amid a global pandemic and an unexpectedly scrapped cinematic universe, director Leigh Whannell shocked audiences and critics alike with his 2020 global juggernaut, The Invisible Man. Starring the always intoxicating Elisabeth Moss, that film owned the box office before the abrupt lockdown. Five years later, Whannell is back, trying his hand at a new property. However, this time, the results aren't entirely alike.
Christopher Abbot stars as Blake, a writer who, along with his wife and daughter, ventures to his childhood home to find closure after the state declares his missing father dead. Though Blake's relationship with his father is now nonexistent, we are offered glimpses of his upbringing. Filled with questions of sanity and priority, it is evident that his childhood is anything but typical. But Blake ignores the indisputable signs, introducing his family to the rigors of the countryside, refusing to acknowledge the evil that lurks in the shadows once the sun sets behind the exquisite mountain range.
A ghastly miscast Julia Garner stars as Blake's wife, Charlotte. A dedicated and focused journalist, Charlotte appears stuck as she navigates life as a working mother and wife. Stressed with deadlines, the last thing she wants to embark on is a weeks-long voyage to the deep, isolated countryside. But she loves her husband and longs for a renewed connection with her daughter. So, she agrees to the journey. She'll work remotely, so long as a wi-fi connection is nearby.
As Blake navigates the hefty moving van through the thin, curvy backroads of the Oregon sticks, the family appears to be reconnecting. The sudden spark forces audiences to reconsider their initial notions of the family situation. Though perceived to be on rocky ground, the triad appears connected, moving as one as they embrace the greenery and welcome the sights and smells of the deep forest. But that all changes once they hit a fork in the road, a moment of uncertainty with Blake as they lay eyes on an all too familiar structure out their side window.
Part character study, part internal thriller, Leigh Whannell's Wolf Man offers up a plethora of strong moments. That said, the prized director detours from jump scares, instead centering his story on the psychological body horrors that often work a heavy hand in independent genre films. Painting with a broad stroke, he refuses to waste time with the origins of the situation. Audiences must take the story at face value—the remaining details be damned.
A brilliant performance from Abbot gives the film a much-needed soul as Universal undoubtedly spent serious cash to allow their prized director to capture the visual aesthetic he saw in the creation of his narrative. But sadly, the visual brilliance doesn't overflow into other facets of the film.
Lost amongst the rubble are Whannell's influences, most notably that of John Landis' 1981 classic An American Werewolf in London and David Cronenberg's 1986 telling The Fly. Both are felt and seen at different moments within the story. That is prominent. But Wolf Man struggles to do justice to either.
The dialogue, often plagued by elementary presentation, is frequently stymied by the presence of the couple's young child. Whannell, more often than not, undervalues his audience. Instead of allowing them to read the screen, he lays out plot points verbatim. The result is a straightforward story that leaves little to the imagination. And with the much-respected R-rating at its base, you struggle to connect with the characters or their present situation, which hinders the film from fully utilizing its position within the theatrical landscape.
While the film's main twist is evident from the onset, the film ends on a strong note. A tense exchange amongst a familiar setting allows the story to thrive on its claustrophobic charm that examines a fish-out-of-water experience balanced with a scene of familiarity. But all that greatness doesn't permit viewers to overlook the struggles they experienced to get there.
Whannell is better than Wolf Man. Fans of his will know that from the thirty-minute mark. But deep within the context of the story, there are moments of pure excellence. And while a sequel is never guaranteed, if one does arise, one can hope that Blumhouse will allow the director an opportunity to right his ship. This output is close to what it needs to be. But at times, the closer you are to being right, the further you feel from the true version you wish to express.
