When I was a child, the one thing which frightened me more than anything was … werewolves.
Lord, I’d cry when werewolf movies came on! I’d shut my eyes, cover my ears, and weep like … well, like a frightened child. Once, when I was little, my mother found me crying in my bedroom. She asked what was wrong, and I answered by showing her my arm. She perked a brow, and asked for clarification. Apparently, the tiny, wispy hairs on my arm indicated to me I was becoming a werewolf and would feast on my loved ones at the next full moon. She had a good laugh, explained (as best her pickled brain could) about hair follicles and the nature of human skin, and reminded me of the hair on my own father’s arms. I felt better, but my attachment to werewolves remained.
I have no idea when it happened, but somewhere along the course of my life I stopped believing in movie magic, and it might’ve been because of my desire to overcome my fear of werewolves. By 1981, I had no fear of any monsters any more, of course, but I’d also lost the ability to suspend disbelief for any form of entertainment. When An American Werewolf in London was released, I not only was able to enjoy the movie without any chills, it became one of my all-time favorite horror movies.
Now, werewolves are my favorite mythical monsters. Ben and Bryce have their zombies, Twilight and True Blood fans have their vampires … but give me werewolves. Not the sissy ones like in the Underworld franchise, but the nasty, mindless, monstrous ones like in … well, see for yourself:
These film makers beat me to it. If I were going to write and make a werewolf movie, this looks like the kind I’d make.
This is going to be awesome. I’ll have to wait for either Pay-Per-View or the DVD, but I’m going to see it. And I can’t wait.
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