Review: The Film, An American Werewolf in London…

I recall attempting to watch this film when it initially premiered on premium cable channels. My family was away on a high school band trip to Ireland with my sisters, and I had to stay home. Poor me. Alas, I wasn’t left alone. My paternal grandmother had the dubious honor of babysitting my 13-year-old, prepubescent self for the duration. One evening, as I lay on the floor in front of the family television in a cramped space my family-of-six called the “TV Room,” and my grandmother sat on the couch behind me, I decided to watch An American Werewolf in London (1981). Her brown-stockinged, edema-stricken, slippered foot remained in my peripheral vision the entire time. 

You can imagine the outcome and the reasons why I stopped watching it—the shower scene killed it. Not literally, but you get the idea. Was it the awkwardness, my embarrassment, my prepubescent shame? Methinks a combination of the three. I switched the channel to one showing a soccer game. That seemed safe. Some time later, I did get the chance to view the entire film, but I can’t remember exactly when. 

The film itself, in my humble opinion, is a masterpiece of horror and comedy. Landis married these two seemingly incongruous concepts into a lasting, entertaining movie. The premise is standard: two college students spend a semester travelling through Europe, but get caught up—terrifyingly so—in rural England. Both of them get attacked by a werewolf; one survives, the other dies. David Naugthon (Detroit Rock City) plays David Kessler, the survivor of the massacre, and the rest of the film focuses on his transformation—both the physical and emotional—and the resulting fallout. Jack Goodman (Griffin Dunne, After Hours) is the one who dies, but his role as David’s conscience continues post-carnage.  

Critics consider this film uneven, with long periods of underdeveloped exposition dotted with spectacular sequences, that filmmaker John Landis (Animal House) didn’t know what he was doing. They believe that the special effects maestro, Rick Baker (The Wolfman), is the only true star of the movie. Indeed, the effects were cutting-edge and spectacular for the time, but the rest of the film worked as a cohesive whole, despite the naysayers.  

The dated special effects notwithstanding, the film ages well. Looking at it through a bildungsroman lens, it works: the young, awkward protagonist endures physical and emotional trials on his way to adulthood. Yet, unfortunately, this story ends tragically, which also fits within the coming-of-age category, at least in the Twentieth Century. 

Since I can watch this from time to time and never tire of it, I highly recommend it to unacquainted viewers. It’s that good. As for my memories of watching this film, I can sometimes still see that brown-stockinged, edema-stricken, slippered foot out of the corner of my eye. But I just blink and carry on.