From the moment the credits completed and the actual film started I knew it.
The first sign of the beast kept me interested but still I knew it.
The lashings of blood splatter made me jump first time but I knew it.
This film lacks any real atmosphere. The look and feel is there, the stylised 1890s backdrop actually smells real enough, the beast itself actually looks pretty convincing from the extended hind-legs to its shaggy forequarters and wickedly fangs, but the actual story and film doesn’t cling together with any sort of cohesiveness.
For some time I kept going with it waiting for Benicio or Sir Hopkins to pull it all together but alas, cliche after cliche just threw me off.
There was a hint of something clever when we finally (spoiler alert!) get told that Lawrence’s father is actually the one who killed his own wife wantonly one night when the ‘beast was set free’. But soon enough the plot failed again and we are left wondering what cliche will next rear its ugly head.
Hugo Weaving lends some Mr Anderson-esque repulsion to the mix which comes off oddly but never really amounts to anything and we are left at the end with a sad sack of a love story with a dying transmogrifying Lawrenece (Del Toro) saying thank you to a doe-eyed brothers finance who just shot him with a *shock* silver bullet, as Hugo staggers front of stage clutching a bite mark and pull back to full moon with a howl ending and I am running out of my seat for the exit.
What more can we expect from a Werewolf film but the normal cliches that go with them? I expected more tension, more terror and quite frankly some better script writing to boot, but alas, all we have here is some dam good transformations and a lot of filler.