by ELIZABETH STEIN

You know the drill--3:00 a.m., you wake from a bad dream and stagger into the bathroom, splash cold water on your face and stare at your blue-tinged reflection: who is that person?

The next day, however, standing in the matter-of-fact sunlight, you scratch your head and wonder, what was I thinking? Nightmare Self has no relation to Daytime Joe, yet the two face each other across an abyss that can and will be crossed when you are most vulnerable, without your will or desire.

Thus the hairy pleasures of the 1941 Universal Studios horror classic, The Wolf Man, starring Lon Chaney Jr. as the addled victim of two souls.

With its expressionistic lighting, multiple-image montage and cheesy Freudian overlay, this classic horror film is a guilty pleasure worthy of its cult status. But its real magic lies in the protagonist’s poignant unwillingness to become a Wolf Man, his absolute possession by this "wolf self," and his complete inability to control the transformation.

I have a British friend who captures this dilemma perfectly in a startling imitation of werewolf transformation. First, his left eyebrow twitches minutely, then his lower lip begins to quiver and jerk. The eyes narrow in pain, then bug out in fear and surprise. Finally he snarls and his jaw juts slightly as a tiny pointed tooth emerges—a lower canine—and we both collapse in howls. We laugh, ah, but there is a bit of the wolf in all of us! As the nihilistic gypsy Maleva says, "Even a man that is pure in heart, and says his prayers by night, may become a wolf when the wolfbane blooms and the autumn moon is bright."

Admittedly, Lon Chaney, Jr.’s portrayal of Sir Larry Talbot gives more than a few clues to the wolf within. Seemingly cast against type as an English lord (son of the pint-sized Claude Rains, no less), Chaney is oversized, thick-browed and jowly, even as he slicks his hair back and puts the lupine moves on Gwen, the village girl he spies through his father’s telescope.

Today we’d call it stalking, but Sir Larry was just following the Players Book of Lust and Romance. He is, after all, the twin brother infused with American virility and woofism, an Esau come back to claim his inheritance and cut through English reserve with a colloquial, "Aww, quit handing me that!"

One wonders if his inner wolf was offended when Gwen suggests he buy the cane with the cutesy-pie handle at her Dad’s antique shop: "How about a little dog?" she suggests innocently. "That would suit you!" Grrrr, he might have replied, I’ll be a big doggy by the end of the hour! A little dog, you see, has been civilized; he might even show up on the streets of New York wearing a sweater. Yet the true canine heart cares nothing for social restraint, convention, ritual or class. A dog will scratch himself (or worse) at a funeral or wedding, then run off, unrepentant, with a hunk of Sunday dinner between his slavering jaws. But unlike his domestic cousin, a wolf lacks the "Down, boy!" gene, and crosses the line from roguish misbehavior to assault. (I’ve never seen a werewolf after an attack—perhaps he is more relaxed and likely to chase a stick?)

The werewolf, in fact, is a great analogy for alcoholism (or any addiction): some get "bit" and are unable to control themselves, with tragic consequences. That we are all vulnerable to "the bite" is the t’orny subtext.

In this respect, the gypsy camp, where we first encounter a werewolf, takes on new meaning. A gypsy also lives outside convention—he’ll steal a jewel, swallow it, and retrieve it later with an amused shrug. But werewolves are a tough call, even for gypsies! Watch closely after a distraught Bela (Lugosi) reads the cards for Jenny, and you will see a sign appear on his forehead—that’s a wolverine headache he’s rubbing away!

Gypsy lamps shine brightly, music plays, but fog shrouds the gypsy camp, and out of it comes Maleva (fabulously played by Maria Ouspenskaya), Bela’s real or adopted mother (she foster parents every werewolf she meets). She appears and disappears like a Greek chorus, delivering variations of her lisping pronouncement, "De weh you walked was t’orny, my son, through no fault of your own . . ."

Clearly the white-haired Maleva is from the school of hard knocks—silver cane knocks, that is. One can’t imagine her as a werewolf, however; no, her job is to befriend werewolves and taunt their rational-minded fathers, the keepers of convention. Sir John, Larry’s father, is clearly a son of the Enlightenment. He won’t tolerate village superstition and thus has tied Larry to a chair to make him face his demons.

Encountering Maleva on the foggy plains, he accuses her of filling Larry’s head with "werewolf nonsense." To this Maleva responds with the devastating, "But you feexed him, Sir Chon?" adding a series of piercing rhetorical questions worthy of Perry Mason ("And are you now hurrying home to make sure he is all right?"). When gunshots fire in the distance and the affrighted Sir John rushes off, she can’t resist a parting shot of her own, "Hurry Sir Chon, hurry!"

Larry’s transformation, meanwhile, is apparently a grassroots affair, starting from the feet up. Feeling ticklish, he rips off his socks as the hair starts to grow. The toes gnarl and darken into paws, and eventually Larry walks off on dainty animal tip-toe (it could be the wolf is a dandy—Larry tears off his shirt before the transformation, but the wolf is seen in long sleeves!).

His journey back to civilization is equally impressive. The stricken wolf seems to regress to puppyhood, his pouty underlip sucking the air in search of a Mama shewolf—could it be the wolf himself is apprehensive about returning to society and the Nair-job ahead? Is he afraid of consequences, or has he seen werewolf horror movies about those bald and neutered aliens from "advanced civilizations"?

If you haven’t seen the wolf lately, visit his lair. The hairy transformation scenes, the atmospheric lighting, the ohm’gosh movie music with its nervous violins and French horns, xylophone and timpany, the fly-eyed psychological montage buzzing through Larry’s mind—all these endear The Wolf Man to us. Civilization may be clean-cut, but a nice woolly coat (and a bowl of popcorn) will get you through the night.

Postscript: I’ve heard Lon Chaney Jr. has yet to receive an honorary star on Hollywood Blvd.—for shame! It would appear The Wolf Man is an endangered species. For such flagrant neglect, Lon now deserves two—one for himself. and one for the vanishing beast.

Thanks, Elizabeth, for this penetrating and sympathetic look at one of the great classic movie monsters.  And you're right...Chaney Jr. is a star who deserves a "star."

Article copyright © Elizabeth Stein

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