"Even a man who is pure in heart and says his prayers by night, may become a wolf when the wolfbane blooms and the autumn moon is bright."

The idea of a re-make of the Universal Studios classic The Wolfman undoubtedly sounded better in the pitch meeting than it did in execution. Updating the story for modern times, with modern effects, and positioned as an anti-Valentine's Day movie, starring two stars who are eminently watchable and elevate anything they're in, it seemed like a sure bet. Yet we are left with this joyless cinematic whimper in moonlight.

The Wolfman sets itself up as the story of a prodigal son, Lawrence Talbot (Benecio Del Toro), who has returned to his father, Sir John Talbot (Anthony Hopkins), after the death of his brother, Ben Talbot (Simon Merrells). There is no fatted calf for his return, only blood, body parts, and the trappings of a mystery. The movie reminded me of a string of horror clichès strung together for two hours, a lesson in bad writing.

It begins with a violent opening scene meant to hook the audience. Opening scenes are meant to assure the audience that they are in good hands. A strong opening doesn't have to mean an exciting bloodletting, it is just the promise of what's in store (though, upon reflection, sadly, this film delivers on what it promises in the opening: you basically get the same thing for two hours). The movie then tells us the story rather than let it unfold—with heavy-handed flashbacks, which are the equivalent of narrative info dumps, and at some points literally telling you what's going on on-screen—and thus doesn't give the cast much to do.

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