Traditional horror has been around for decades, reaching its peak in a bygone era but still finding fresh breakthroughs now and then—whether through innovative practical effects, unexpected narrative twists, or exploring themes previously untouched by the genre. In recent years, there’s the newly coined “elevated horror” (mostly spearheaded by A24 Horrors and their imitators), which uses horror elements to masquerade as metaphors for more humane fears and social commentaries. And then, there’s Leigh Whannell, who has his own approach to horror.
Ever since his debut in Saw with James Wan, Whannell has challenged the conventions of traditional horror, subverting tropes and creating new hybrids with high concepts that often feel like they’ve been pulled straight from sci-fi libraries. The Invisible Man (2020) is a testament to his inventiveness—modernizing the classic monster story to stand toe-to-toe with elevated horror by redefining the monster to be more grounded. However, this isn’t his first attempt at modernizing a classic monster story. When I saw Upgrade (2018), I knew it had always been a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde story masked as body horror (or tech horror, depending on your interpretation).
Wolf Man follows a similar formula: crafting a high-concept horror that modernizes a classic monster story. Although Whannell only joined the project after Derek Cianfrance and Ryan Gosling stepped down due to scheduling conflicts, his creative imprint is unmistakable throughout the film. The influence of his earlier works, like Upgrade and The Invisible Man, is evident in both tone and concept. This raises a compelling question: can a werewolf story reach the same elevated status? To some extent, it does, but the picture is more complex than that. And in the grander scheme of things, what does the werewolf truly represent?
Under the Pale Moon
With Gosling out of production, Christopher Abbott, with his “mouth of the wolf, the eyes of the lamb”—if I may borrow from Sleep Token’s lyrics—takes the lead, a metaphor that encapsulates his duality as both a nurturing father and a man grappling with primal instincts. He portrays Blake Lovell, a seemingly good guy and modern dad who is the film’s emotional epicenter. While his wife, Charlotte (Julia Garner of Ozark), works as a journalist and the family’s breadwinner, Blake cares for their daughter, Ginger (Matilda Firth). The father and daughter share an unspoken but powerful connection that even Charlotte envies. In one tender moment, Blake apologizes to Ginger, confessing his fear as a father: that “kids getting scars” often stems from their parents becoming “the thing that scarred them.” This dialogue resonates deeply, foreshadowing future developments while harking back to the film’s opening.

As a child, Blake lived with his father on a remote farm in the woods. It was there he realized that his dead-serious, unyielding father—motivated by his parental fears—had left him emotionally scarred. This revelation coincides with the discovery that the surrounding woods are infested with wolf-like creatures that stand on two legs. It becomes apparent (and expected) that the story will come full circle—much like the moon’s cycle, a key aspect of werewolf lore—with Blake confronting his inherited fears and traumas.
In its aim to elevate the story to a human drama relevant to the modern era, much like The Invisible Man, which explores the invisible trauma of toxic relationships and manipulative dynamics, Wolf Man plays out the idea that generational trauma should end with Blake. Modern parenting—where gender roles play a lesser role and open communication between parents and children becomes the norm—serves as one of the film’s key models. It explores these themes alongside the navigation of male egos in a manner that, while not particularly subtle, proves effective. Blake’s resentment subtly surfaces in moments where his wife’s role as the breadwinner challenges his self-image, illustrating the friction between modern societal dynamics and deeply ingrained male egos. This offers a fresh perspective, as werewolf stories traditionally represent the Id, the primal instinct, but here, it bridges the battle between the primal Id and the self-criticizing Superego through the lens of the male ego.
Clarity emerges when the news arrives that his now-estranged father has been declared deceased, delivered through a formal letter from the state. After some years away from the woods to live in the city, Blake confesses to his daughter that even though he no longer talks with his father, now that his father’s gone, all he wants to do is talk to him. This becomes the drive that pushes him to return to his father’s farm to collect belongings—perhaps as a coping mechanism or a form of reconnection. With that in mind, Blake brings his family back to where it all started. But, en route, one blink of an eye and their life changes instantly. This marks the point where the film fully transitions into horror territory.
In an almost futile attempt to save his family, Blake is wounded by a werewolf-like creature that gets in their way. As they barely arrive at his father’s farm, Blake begins experiencing bizarre transformations that could endanger Charlotte and Ginger. And then there’s a fateful night, bathed in moonlight, though the film often opts for dim, dark settings, which adds to the ominous atmosphere. This scene feels intimate but also intense and menacing at the same time. Yet, being scary is barely on the agenda for this one.
Of Wolves and Men
Cramping the plot into the span of one night traditionally injects a film with a sense of urgency and pressing intensity. In this regard, Wolf Man succeeds—effectively projecting the characters’ psyches into the audience. However, this approach doesn’t always hold up, particularly during the film’s later sections when the werewolves begin to make their entrance.

Much like Whannell’s other works, Wolf Man operates almost like a sci-fi film, following a set of uncanny rules and spectacles. One striking example is the portrayal of Blake’s transformation into the titular creature. The camera alternates between the family’s perspective—focusing on the agony Blake endures during the transformation—and Blake’s perspective, presented through the wolf’s vision, with infrared visuals and over-enhanced audio. This approach deepens our understanding of how disorienting the experience is for him.
While visually impressive, there’s a lingering feeling that the film never fully achieves a certain level of eeriness. It’s clear why Whannell chose this route, but the spectacle could have been more impactful if it had leaned more heavily on Abbott’s performance. Even without the special effects, Abbott has all the pedigrees needed to elevate these scenes.
Another problem that keeps surfacing is the werewolf’s design. As much as the decision to prioritize practical effects over CGI is laudable, the result doesn’t always live up to the effort. Opting for a more natural transformation with less hair and contorted jaws, the werewolf feels more like bulked-up creatures from The Hills Have Eyes or Bone Tomahawk. While Abbott’s eyes have a strong gravitational pull to transcend the prosthetic makeup he’s wearing, the design proves to be a distraction to the dramatic flow. If it were a campier film, the design might serve a different purpose, but for a film with a flair for drama, a sudden, intentional moment that is borderline laughable makes little sense.
Setting aside the design, the film feels like it bites less than it can chew—leaving a big chunk of potential unscathed in the process. The decision to keep it intimate—restricting the settings to just one night in an isolated farm with only three characters mainly interacting with each other—leaves much to be desired. The gory potential of its lycanthropic beast is unquenchable, even when there are limbs and bowels scattered around somewhere in the film. Whannell invests a little too much in creaky sounds of wooden floors and dimly lit rooms without a biting payoff. The farm’s rather bleak layout is often underused, as if the stakes were never big to begin with. The horror lies more in the realization that there’s something beyond the character’s control as a human (or in this case, parent), however you interpret the werewolf’s metaphor—whether it’s about parental fear, toxic masculinity, or even hereditary disease. They all make sense whenever I see Blake’s transformation into the werewolf—his inability to comprehend his family, sudden violent outbursts, and the constant battle between such urges and his common sense to protect his family.
At its best, Wolf Man sinks its teeth deeply into the themes with force. But for all its potential, it ultimately gnaws at the surface, leaving too much meat on the bone—a touching but restrained howl into the night.
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