the howling Tagged Articles at Cinematical

They don't make double bills like they used to. I got in on the tail end of the double feature, which was a routine practice at second-run theaters until (at least) the early 80s. As a child my parents only took me to see one or two movies per year, so when I got to my teens and realized I could see two movies for the price of one, I became an addict (my all-time favorite double bill: Excalibur and The Howling). Nowadays you have to create your own double feature, and be willing to pay separate admission fees for each movie. Add in the cost of concessions, which is hard to avoid if you're at a theater for more than four hours, and the price can get out of hand.

Multiplexes don't make it easy to watch movies back-to-back, either, staggering their showtimes to maximize the number of screenings per day, accommodate the sharing of film prints in more than one auditorium, and so forth. All that is understandable from their standpoint, and doesn't present a problem if you're only seeing one movie at a time. But when I'm trying to catch up with several releases that I've missed, it gets to be a big challenge. Let me give you an example.

To varying degrees, I wanted to see all three movies that opened in wide release on Friday (G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra, Julie & Julia, and A Perfect Getaway), ideally one after the one at the first available opportunity, which, for me, was during the day on Saturday.

My friend Paul never looked at me the same way after I convinced him to see Wolfen rather than the latest James Bond adventure in the summer of 1981. I was planning my first trip to New York that fall and was utterly enthralled by the apocalyptic views of a burned-out South Bronx, looking like an exotic urban wilderness -- or Dresden after the fire bombings. I gloried in the long, gliding, low-angle Steadicam shots, enjoyed the tension generated, and tolerated the blood and guts on display. My soon to be ex-pal hunkered down in his seat, hating every second and throwing daggers at me with his eyes.

As the years have passed, I have nursed an untoward affection for Wolfen. Many horror fans have concluded that it is, at best, the weak cousin to the two other superior entries in the unofficial and unrelated "wolf vs. man" trilogy of 1981. Admittedly, An American Werewolf in London and The Howling rip Wolfen to shreds as far as style, pacing and dark entertainment value are concerned. Yet buried within the often lugubrious storytelling of Wolfen lies a gem of an idea and a radical approach to the traditional Hollywood fantasy of werewolves.

How did Michael Wadleigh, the director of 1969's landmark documentary Woodstock, come to direct his first fiction feature more than a decade later? And why adapt a novel by the notorious Whitley Strieber? One must first be disabused of the misconception that Wolfen is actually about werewolves or is a horror thriller; in a literal sense, it is more an environmental tract, a plea for man to live in harmony in nature, than it is any kind of supernatural fable.

From its opening frames, The Howling stiffens, stretches tightly, and even occasionally loosens the nerves, all without losing entirely its firm grip on your emotions. Director Joe Dante has a great love for movie lore, which informs the canvas on which he paints and makes repeat viewings essential, while never wavering in his drive to tell the story as quickly and efficiently as possible. That makes the running time fly by; it's only later that you realize how deep an impression the film carves into your subconscious.

Released in May 1981, The Howling was first out of the gate of the unofficial, unrelated "wolf meets man" trilogy that year, beating both Wolfen and An American Werewolf in London into theaters. Working with a budget reportedly ten times smaller than American Werewolf, The Howling made a killing at the box office in relation to its budget. It's fascinating to compare the films, but beyond the vague subject matter of "werewolves," they have little in common. Dante was a proud graduate of the Roger Corman school of low budget filmmaking. As a result, The Howling is a lean, mean tension machine that's much better than its straightforward approach might suggest.

Disembodied voices whisper under abstract video images as the credits roll and stringed instruments saw away in the background. The images resolve into a televised interview with Dr. George Waggner (Patrick Macnee) spouting a soothing brand of psycho-babble. Behind the scenes, the station's general manager (Kevin McCarthy) directs traffic as co-anchor Karen White (Dee Wallace) trawls through Hollywood, preparing to meet with Eddie (Robert Picardo), a suspect in a string of vicious murders.

"A naked American man stole my balloons."

1981 was the year of the werewolf. April saw the release of Joe Dante's The Howling, a dark, tense thriller laced with cynical humor, followed by an environmental call for action, Michael Wadleigh's Wolfen in July. (I'll be writing more about both next week.) An American Werewolf in London was the last of the unrelated modern "wolf meets man" trilogy to be released that August, but is probably the best loved and most remembered of the three.

In part that's because John Landis was at the top of his game. Just 31 at the time of the film's release, the writer/director had demonstrated his skill with low-budget comedies (Schlock, 1973; The Kentucky Fried Movie, 1977) and moved with great success into the studio system (Animal House, 1978; The Blues Brothers, 1980), capturing the zeitgeist of a movie-loving generation eager for irreverent, frat boy humor that was still deeply rooted in conservative, Middle American values.

Indeed, David Kessler, the hero of American Werewolf, is a cheery, jocular, modest, responsible everyman. As played by David Naughton, who had achieved a degree of fame by singing the theme song to a failed sitcom ("Makin' It") and starring in a series of soft-drink commercials ("Wouldn't you like to be a pepper too?"), David always strives to do the right thing, no matter how stereotypical it may be.

He and his best friend Jack (Griffin Dunne) set off on a three-month backpacking tour of Europe. For some unexplained reason, David wants to start their trip in Northern England, and the film begins with the two exiting a sheep truck to hike across a beautiful, completely barren landscape as the sun sets. The joking banter between the two is light and mocking, and continues as they seek refuge from the weather in The Slaughtered Lamb, a typical British pub with atypically unfriendly locals and a pentagram painted on the wall. Hurried out into the night with odd warnings ("Beware the moon!" "Stay off the moors!"), the two soon find themselves bathed in the light of a full moon, smack dab in the middle of the moors, and listening with increasing disbelief to the howling of a wild animal in the night.

They had faces back then, certainly. More importantly they had titles. You could tell a Hammer film came from the land of Churchill just from their strong titles, fit for a debating society, really: "Resolved: Frankenstein Must Be Destroyed." As it happens, the Shock It To Me! fest in San Francisco at the Castro Theater October 5-7 is showing both Frankenstein Must Be Destroyed (1969) and Dracula Has Risen From the Grave (1968) with Hammer star Veronica Carlson flying in for a visit. They've also got three by the great Joe Dante (Matinee, The Howling, and the very witty Gremlins 2).

Bay Area horror movie luminary John Stanley will be visiting, and they'll be reviving the best movie made in Santa Cruz ever--and don't tell me about no Lost Boys!--Killer Klowns from Outer Space. Let us focus, though, on Hammer's third Dracula movie (not counting its 1960 The Brides of Dracula, which Dracula doesn't even bother to show up for). For the the third time, the tall and remote Christopher Lee fills the opera cape, in a horror adventure that deals with the rage of the Count; you could argue that Lee was one of the last people to take Dracula seriously.