John Landis’ outrageous, full-throttle classic is one of the best horror movies of the ’80s. An American Werewolf in London deftly balances lurid body horror with an irreverent sense of humor, dropping one iconic moment after another. High points include some of film’s finest werewolf transformations (as Landis depicts it, akin to hitting some kind of awful mega-puberty condensed into one agonizing minute) and one of its most memorable nightmare sequences (“Mom, the Nazi Mutants are at the door!”).
The film, for all its humor, is thoroughly soaked in paranoia, well-established by a fantastic opening sequence in which our back-packing American protagonists find themselves in a threatening rural tavern in the English moors (it’s definitely a “We don’t like your kind around here” sort of vibe). Rick Baker’s effects are tremendous and help set a comically gruesome, unpredictable tone – it’s the kind of movie where your friend’s decaying corpse may give you an intervention in a grimy porn theater.
The only blemishes are David Naughton in the lead role – he’s got a goofy charm, but he can’t pull off the more anguished bits – and an ending that feels a tad abrupt. But these are quibbles. Probably the finest compliment you could give American Werewolf is that it has maintained its flippant, offbeat sensibility – 35 years later, it’s still fucking cool.
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