Only the most die hard werewolf movie fans (or bottom feeders who like to see bad films as a sort of self-inflicted pleasure-pain) will want to endure this. Even they may be disappointed. Silver fox Graves (who drives a hip car and has a hip house while hip music blares) stars as a former hunter turned writer who, after a series of grisly attacks on local residents, decides to hunt down the predator personally. The killings are the standard "hapless victim looks into camera and screams while growls are heard then blackout". This gets tiresome very quickly. One extended attack on Grave's ladyfriend Pflug (in a pedestrian performance) has a certain amount of edge to it. (Hilariously, though, this single woman lives in a house that appears to have more rooms than Monticello!) Pflug suspects Walker, an old buddy of Graves who lives in a mansion up in the woods and does a lot of odd philosophizing about human nature. Walker, still attractive and virile, gives an unusual performance full of dopey expressions and strange vocal inflections. His relationship with Graves has a homoerotic twinge, not unlike the Stephen Boyd/Charlton Heston dynamic in "Ben-Hur". Sheriff Carey rounds out the male trio of tall actors. The film aspires to a level of intellect that it's budget cheapens more than a little. Still, it's not the worst TV horror movie ever made. At least someone tried to write something with a little irony and mystery to it. One scene between Graves, Pflug and Walker takes place in a restaurant that must have a sign on the door, "No one attractive allowed!" Soap opera veteran Storm appears briefly as a victim.
