Allow me to present a helpful hint for aspiring genre filmmakers around the world: If and when you make the questionable decision to give your horrific cinematic monstrosity the gift of gab, you should pay very careful attention to the words and phrases that pour from his/her/its blood-stained maw. Many directors have attempted to inject some much-needed humor into their horror-based production by allowing their hairy creations to spout off at the mouth whenever the urge strikes them, only to watch in absolute terror as their celluloid offspring fails to elicit anything other than a few unintentional chuckles from its intended audience. Sometimes silence can speak volumes.
Director Lance W. Dreesen's nouveau werewolf opus Big Bad Wolf suffers greatly from what I like to refer to as Chatty Villain Syndrome, or CVS. Warwick Davis' Leprechaun series, while obviously not a barometer for what the genre can accomplish, is another franchise stricken with this oh so deadly disease, as are the last few Nightmare on Elm Street entries we've been forced to nibble upon. I've always held the belief that villains are much more frightening and intimidating when they're not trying to make me wet my diapers with the kind of ribald humor only mentally-challenged fifth graders would find remotely appealing. After all, nobody likes to die laughing.
Big Bad Wolf, on the other hand, has something going for it few werewolf flicks can claim, namely an engaging, well-scripted narrative worthy of your dwindling, media-saturated attention span. The inclusion of '80s bad-ass Richard Tyson (Three O'Clock High, Kindergarten Cop) is also a huge golden bonus, allowing this intimidating, square-jawed nightmare of a man to do exactly what he does best: scare the unsweetened Jesus Christ Superstar out of me. Had this intriguing concept come packaged with an interesting creature that didn't upchuck ridiculously cheesy one-liners all over his would-be victims, perhaps Dreesen's clever little film wouldn't strongly resemble a neutered puppy whimpering sadly in a soiled cardboard box.
Awww. Poor puppy.
The story, choking desperately on its borrowed plotlines, follows the nerdy misadventures of teenage outcast Derek Cowley (Trevor Duke). When he's not busy desperately trying to make friends with a couple of brainless fraternity clowns or pining endlessly for best friend/sexy auto mechanic Samantha (Kimberly J. Brown), our virginal hero is trying to determine whether or not his abusive stepfather Mitchell (Tyson) is a shape-shifting member of the lycanthropian race. With the help of his devilishly handsome uncle and his lifelong fellatio-prone sidekick, Derek must unravel the mystery behind a series of horrific murders before he and his crew become a plate of tasty name brand dog food — the kind that makes its own gravy. The horror!
Though I'm quick to poke Big Bad Wolf's ticklish storyline with my trusty Ball Point Pen of Giggling Cinematic Justice, I was actually more interested in the character's struggle to stop this suburban werewolf than the end result of the titular creature's gore-encrusted midnight snacks. There's a surprising amount of depth to be found here, that is, if you can get past a painfully trite opening sequence that involves not only a walking, talking, wise-cracking wolf man, but a particularly foul, bestiality-tinged rape scene as well. Of course, chances are you'll be thrusting your fingers towards the stop button long before his wolf dork gets down to serious womanizing business.
A quick question for all the genre fans in the house tonight: What crucial element is essential to the successful creation of a balls-out werewolf picture? If you're one of the pasty individuals who boldly proclaimed "Decent make-up effects!" to a room full of stuffed animals, pat yourself firmly on the back until you have achieved sufficient self-satisfaction. Unfortunately, the effects department is where Big Bad Wolf falls painfully short. For the film's wolf-oriented sequences, Richard Tyson appears to have been dipped in a vat of pine tar and covered with several pounds of unsanitized pubic hair, resulting in a hilariously awful sight gag that is compounded exponentially by the atrocious dialogue that flows like spoiled Cream of Wheat from his barely functioning mouth. Good or bad, it's definitely unique.
On the performance end of town, the film is unexpectedly tight. Trevor Duke and Kimberly J. Brown do wonders with their respective roles, giving you plenty of reasons to keep watching long after the thrill of a talking werewolf has shuffled off its mortal coil. And while Richard Tyson does an incredible job of making my anus quiver with unbridled fear, he seems a little befuddled when it comes to delivering his comedic catch phrases. Everyone else is either pleasant, uneven, or forgettable. I'll let you figure out the specifics for yourself. Why should I have all the fun?
Before you decide to pick up this Big Bad Wolf from the local Humane Society, you should adequately prepare yourself for a meaty selection of cornball dialogue, a creature design that lacks both a believable creature and a solid design, and twenty minutes worth of material that smells a little too much like Wes Craven's outhouse floater Cursed for me to be anything other than completely uncomfortable. However, if you can overlook these flaws and embrace the film for what it is, the underlying theme of abusive relationships and how they affect the human condition will lovingly curl up at your misshapen feet.
And, possibly, piss on your trousers.
