This made-for-tv movie screams 1970s, from the cars to the sets to the music to the wardrobe. So, for those born later, watch it and you'll understand why very few truly memorable television shows came out of that decade. Having said that, there are a couple of decent aspects to this production, and one exceptional one.
First, the not-so-decent aspects. The plot is mundane and the mystery is not very intriguing. Someone -- or something -- is decimating the population of a hip oceanside community, and Sheriff Vernon Bell is determined to find out who or what has set the town in a dither. He enlists the help of writer/hunter John Wetherby, who in turn tries to recruit his eccentric old friend and hunting companion Byron Douglas to help chase down the killer. Douglas, by far the most interesting character in this story, refuses, citing prior plans. He has an unconventional, some would say twisted, philosophy of life and death. It isn't until he once again bests Wetherby in an old-fashioned bit of arm wrestling that he finally agrees to help track down the vicious culprit responsible for the mutilation killings that are terrifying local denizens. Naturally, the term "werewolf" enters the general consciousness and, as it has for centuries, generates more irrational terror.
Well, I wouldn't say it's exactly terrifying to watch; more tedious than terrifying. Most of the attack scenes take place at night in poorly lit, misty forests and we never really get to see the perpetrator, except at the anticlimactic end when all is revealed. Impending mayhem is telegraphed by beastly grunts, usually in the murky dark, with ominous orchestral accompaniment and blood-curdling screams. We've been down that road too often before, so it's hard to become invested in the outcome. While decent aspects of this tv movie are hard to find, the formulaic script does have a few respectable lines delivered by stalwarts of 70s television, such as Philip Carey (Sheriff Bell), Peter Graves (Wetherby), and the obligatory lady-in-distress Sandy, played by JoAnn Pflug. But there is one surprising and redeeming element that makes this routine tv movie worth an hour and fourteen minutes of your time.
That element is the presence of Clint Walker as the somewhat creepy hunter, Byron Douglas. Playing completely against type, Mr. Walker conveys a sense of understated yet palpable menace unlike anything anyone would have ever thought him capable of. Those blue eyes that have so captivated fans from his "Cheyenne" days and beyond take on a sinister glint belying the smile adored by multi-generations of fans; the combination is positively bone-chilling. It's such a departure from the generally heroic characters he played throughout his career that even non-fans must admit that Clint Walker was a much better actor than he was given credit for, and if given the opportunities he deserved, he would have been a superstar in the eyes of more than just his enduring fan base numbering in the untold thousands. Thanks to INSP and H&I, that number is growing by the day.
While I prefer the heroic over the psychotic, I admire the man's ability to inject an unexpected aura of attractiveness into what is essentially a very scary character, and that's not just because he maintained his tall, dark, and handsome stature throughout his career. When he tells Sandy not to worry, that he'll take care of John, the smile and that wink are diabolical, yet curiously charming. The only reason the movie itself deserves as many stars as I gave it is, in two words, Clint Walker; without him, it'd be worth maybe three.
First, the not-so-decent aspects. The plot is mundane and the mystery is not very intriguing. Someone -- or something -- is decimating the population of a hip oceanside community, and Sheriff Vernon Bell is determined to find out who or what has set the town in a dither. He enlists the help of writer/hunter John Wetherby, who in turn tries to recruit his eccentric old friend and hunting companion Byron Douglas to help chase down the killer. Douglas, by far the most interesting character in this story, refuses, citing prior plans. He has an unconventional, some would say twisted, philosophy of life and death. It isn't until he once again bests Wetherby in an old-fashioned bit of arm wrestling that he finally agrees to help track down the vicious culprit responsible for the mutilation killings that are terrifying local denizens. Naturally, the term "werewolf" enters the general consciousness and, as it has for centuries, generates more irrational terror.
Well, I wouldn't say it's exactly terrifying to watch; more tedious than terrifying. Most of the attack scenes take place at night in poorly lit, misty forests and we never really get to see the perpetrator, except at the anticlimactic end when all is revealed. Impending mayhem is telegraphed by beastly grunts, usually in the murky dark, with ominous orchestral accompaniment and blood-curdling screams. We've been down that road too often before, so it's hard to become invested in the outcome. While decent aspects of this tv movie are hard to find, the formulaic script does have a few respectable lines delivered by stalwarts of 70s television, such as Philip Carey (Sheriff Bell), Peter Graves (Wetherby), and the obligatory lady-in-distress Sandy, played by JoAnn Pflug. But there is one surprising and redeeming element that makes this routine tv movie worth an hour and fourteen minutes of your time.
That element is the presence of Clint Walker as the somewhat creepy hunter, Byron Douglas. Playing completely against type, Mr. Walker conveys a sense of understated yet palpable menace unlike anything anyone would have ever thought him capable of. Those blue eyes that have so captivated fans from his "Cheyenne" days and beyond take on a sinister glint belying the smile adored by multi-generations of fans; the combination is positively bone-chilling. It's such a departure from the generally heroic characters he played throughout his career that even non-fans must admit that Clint Walker was a much better actor than he was given credit for, and if given the opportunities he deserved, he would have been a superstar in the eyes of more than just his enduring fan base numbering in the untold thousands. Thanks to INSP and H&I, that number is growing by the day.
While I prefer the heroic over the psychotic, I admire the man's ability to inject an unexpected aura of attractiveness into what is essentially a very scary character, and that's not just because he maintained his tall, dark, and handsome stature throughout his career. When he tells Sandy not to worry, that he'll take care of John, the smile and that wink are diabolical, yet curiously charming. The only reason the movie itself deserves as many stars as I gave it is, in two words, Clint Walker; without him, it'd be worth maybe three.