There will be spoilers here.

Mostly, I want to weigh in on the divided response to the film, and where I have seen the discourse revolve. Many of the “criticisms,” which I use that turn loosely, are based on two central points. These points are 1) the film not being what they expected, and 2) the wolf man not having a “full,” furred transformation. I am generalizing here based on discussions I have followed on Reddit and social media regarding the movie, of course. This isn’t universal, but these issues come up enough that I felt like exploring them.

And that is not to say the movie can’t be criticized. I think it had issues – my old nemesis, pacing, was a mess. There were a few sequences where it felt we had a significant time jump that made the film feel smaller than it needed to be. I also think the overall siege element of the story was okay, but wasn’t explored as well as it could have been. Plus, what body horror was there was nice, but more could have helped sell the horror of the transformation.

But let’s focus on those audience criticisms that I think are more based on expectations not being met, rather than the actual issues with the film and its interpretation of werewolf themes and aesthetics.

Expectations Walking In

There are certain expectations and tropes that audiences expect regarding werewolf films. There are certain beats that films tend to stick to. What people expected from the film, I feel, was a brutal and bloody werewolf chase. Something a little more violent and intense than it was. Audiences were probably not expecting an exploration of generation trauma and parenthood.

Wolf Man had plenty of thrilling moments, but the audience was probably not prepared for how vulnerable and hurt Blake Lovell (Christopher Abbott) was throughout the film. Blake’s third-act turn aside, for most of the film he is a vulnerable, loving father. He is also sensitive to his ailing marriage. Even his heroism is tempered by the practicality of dealing with injury and disease.

The horror of the film is not about him being a bloodthirsty killer. Instead, Blake’s chief goal in life, even as he struggles with the affliction, is not perpetuating a world of violence and rough masculinity he saw in his youth that rattled him and shaped him. He keeps himself in check, rejecting an antiquated notion of fatherhood his dad represents.

The Wolf Metaphor Tracks

With all that in mind: his realization of the body horror, his deteriorating mental state, and his developing violent aggression nearly unravel the identity he created for himself. He becomes the cliche of the alpha male, down to killing his own, infected father. He loses himself for a time in this moment and the support structure he built for himself collapses, and he becomes the thing he hated in his youth: raw and violent aggression.

All of this works and clicks for me, but I also tend to be a little bit more tapped into this kind of stuff than a general audience, or the gorehounds. However, I can also understand the disappointment. We’re been beating the generational trauma drum in horror films for close to two decades now. I get some people just want to see a Wolf Man be a Wolf Man.

But also carrying such expectations with you into the theater and then claiming the film is bad because it is not what you set it up to be in your mind is a drum I see audiences beat, far, far too often.

On that note, another expectation of the audience that backfired was how the titular Wolf Man appears.

Here There Be Wolf Men (kinda)

I am a big fan of werewolves across the media, and I even write my own fiction about the creatures. Of course, I also love seeing unique takes on monsters, as there is always meaning attached to such decisions that can be explored by creatives and audiences alike.

I also teach about horror and monsters as a way to bridge composition and analysis in a college environment. So I am a little more knowledgeable on werewolf lore and aesthetics than a general audience. But the chief criticism regarding the look of the Wolf Man isn’t from a general audience, but rather the hardcore fans of werewolves who are conditioned to very specific visions of what a wolf man is.

And frankly, that kind of sucks when this version of the Wolf Man features so many fascinating elements going on.

There is a trend among werewolf enthusiasts to idealize the aesthetic werewolf. Big, muscular, with definitive lupine features. It’s an attractive and appealing look for the monster, undoubtedly. I would know, as I designed Fang with that in mind. But also, lycanthropy and other such curses and conditions are often supposed to be portrayed as horrible. Being a seven-foot-tall hot werewolf guy does not sound all that horrible, does it?

Ugly Wolf Men

The thing is, werewolves have become a power fantasy element for people for a few decades now. Less scary, freakish, and horrific. Even Lon Chaney Jr.’s 1941 Wolf Man still has a little bit of an idealized look. Today his wolf man look is a little friendly, and maybe even a little cute for us freaks. But, consider when the look of the werewolf goes off the beaten path. I remember a lot of criticism of the look of Remus Lupin’s bestial form in Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (2004). He was emaciated and lacked fur, looking freakish. I recall many complaints about that.

Complaints like I hear now regarding the Wolf Man‘s approach. This isn’t the idealized werewolf. But I would argue it is an accurate one.

I think the portrayal of Blake and his father in their deteriorating state makes sense, especially given the context of the werewolf lore presented in the film.

As we got our detailed looks at the transformed wolf men of the film but the end of the second act, I was struck by two things. First, this was very much a modern interpretation of 1941’s werewolf form, with more body horror. Secondly, the depiction of Blake’s decomposing body and inhuman rot reflects folklore about such transformations.

It’s the second point I want to explore there.

Is Blake an “Actual” Werewolf?

Too often, we tend to think about werewolves, culturally, as literal hybrids of humans and wolves. Some fusion of an animal and man in an uneasy relationship. And in doing this, we’ve collectively moved on a spectrum toward that idealized werewolf form. However, from historical records and folklore, lycanthropy was more indicative of bestial behavior, things outside of the pack that was the village or community. Violent, predatory behavior that was so far out of the norm you could only compare these people to animals.

So many historical instances of werewolves and vampires (the two were often interchangeable) were a culture’s way of processing sins like murder, rape, and gluttony. Before we had the concept of psychopaths and serial killers, in the earliest days of society, we had werewolves. Like good ol’ Peter Stumpp.

Why am I so certain this is the interpretation of the Wolf Man as the basis for the take on the creature? Because the film goes as far as naming a Native American connection. Also, Blake and his father so closely resemble Wendigos and other beast-man lore. The minute I saw the chewed-off lips of Blake’s father, it was everything I needed to know about what Whannell and his team were doing.

The infection presented in the movie is not the idealized form of the lycanthropy, an uneasy fusion. it is the older, uneasier, and largely unknowable manifestation of the evil that emerges and can overtake someone in the tribe.

Expectations Have Been Dead and Buried (by the Wolf Man)

With such expectations in mind from the idealized werewolf, I can see why people can come out of this film disappointed. I enjoyed Wolf Man and even I have a few greasy bones to pick with it. But what I am seeing emerge in the general discussion is a lack of broader folkloric connections and an unwillingness of some audiences to come to the film on its terms. I place no blame on the audience for the former, but I am certainly critical of the latter.

Coming in with expectations of a film is fair and natural. But I feel lobbying criticism of a film and being unwilling to engage with it further because it did not do what you wanted of it is weak footing for a valid opinion.

Make your determination about Wolf Man when you see it. But please, keep in mind the broader historical context of lycanthropy and be willing to take an artist as they come, without preset notions.

Leigh Whannell’s Wolf Man (2025) is currently playing in theaters as of Jan. 17, 2025.

The post Revenge of Graphic Content #12: Wolf Man (2025) – This Will Be Divisive appeared first on hpkomics.com.

“Redcaps”

Somewhere in the territory between Texas and Mexico…

The old man handed me the lantern. My hand shook a bit as I took it from his wrinkled grasp. We were both shaking. Him from age, me from nerves.

“It’s not a hard job, kid. Just keep a light on things and if you hear stumblin’ in the dark, shine it on whatever is creeping around out there. They’ll go away.”

I didn’t believe the old man but his experience sold me. How could he get to be this old from telling lies about this job? He looked as if a breeze could knock him on his ass. There was nothing to worry about.

The old man kept talking.

“It’s been twenty years, kid. Ain’t had an issue in nearly as long. Had a near miss about two years after I started watchin’ the graves, but quickly learned my lesson and ain’t had a problem since.”

“Yeah, but goblins? Honest goblins? Yer yankin’ my leg, aintcha?”

The old man’s face sank. His cheeks drooped and his eyes were wide.

“I’d never. Too many of the old ways come back out here in the desert. Followin’ us around and waitin’ to jump out.”

The lantern suddenly felt heavier in my hand now. My arm drooped until the lantern was just above my waist.

The old man continued.

“Ya see, those folks from the old countries bring those places with ‘em in their heart, right? Imps an’ goblins and those winged ones, what ya call ‘em?”
“Fairies?”

“Ah, yeah. Them. Yer a pretty smart kid there, how’d ya know?”

My thoughts drifted to my mother, telling my sister and me a story about the little winged ladies who granted wishes or played tricks. It all depended on how we acted.

“Momma told me ‘bout ‘em.”

“Mm, still alive?”

“Nah.”

“Pity ya?”

“Mm.”

The old man hobbled over to a tombstone – M. Rutherford B. 1799 D. 1846 – and leaned against it to keep himself upright. He puffed a bit as he dipped into his coat pocket and plucked a pipe from within. He beckoned me over and I held the lantern up. He flicked up the latch, slipped the open pipe of packed tobacco over the open flame, and waited for it to smoke before he pulled it out again upright and placed it between his lips, just under a shock of tangled white hair.

After a few puffs, he continued.

“Honest to God, kid, I seen ‘em. Little sons of bitches. They come here for the new ones.”

He slapped a hand on the gravestone and toed the fresh dirt at the foot.

“Ya see, back in the old place I guess they used to kill people outright for the bits they needed, rocks an’ spears. But with our irons these days they’re more the scavengin’ types.”

“Scavengin’ what, sir?”

He took a dramatic puff and stared at the edges of the cemetery. The sky was unusually dark with barely a sliver of the moon and almost hidden stars. He coughed a bit and wiped a little phlegm from the corner of his mouth.

“Blood an’ leather.”

I glanced around and held the lantern aloft to shine a little more light around me. It was a calm night, but I couldn’t help but think of a storm. I never liked stillness.

“What do ya mean, sir?”

The old man thought for a moment, then shook his head.

“Doesn’t matter why, just matters that we chase ‘em off. Comprende, kid?”

I nodded.

“Y’all ain’t taking care of the bodies before you buryin’ ‘em? Like, that embalmin’ stuff?” I asked.

“Kid, ya know our undertaker also shoes the horses.”

I nodded.

“Anyway, best you get yourself one of these too.”

He pulled out a small bible from another coat pocket. He flashed it for a second and pocketed it again.

“I got ya tonight. It’s yer first watch. Yer gonna do fine. We have everythin’ we need.”

A chorus of crickets and a distant howl rang out in the surrounding valley. There was no wind, but the air was cool. Crisp. Comforting.

The old man slid behind the marker on shaky knees. I made my way to a scrubby tree and slid down to the foot on a tuft of dried grass.

It would be a long night. I was exhausted already.

…

The fire in our small cabin was always burning. As bad as things were, I was never cold as a child. My sister and I sat and talked to our mother, waiting for our father to return from the hunt.

Mother would sew. We’d ask questions. She knew everything.

“Ma, what are goblins?”

“They’re all kinds. As many as there are people in the city. All of them wanting something different.”

My sister looked up from her doll.

“Are any of them good?”

“No. They’re tricky and dangerous.”

We sat in silence and Mother continued to sew.

I stared up at her, the warm glow of the fire lighting what I see now as a tired and worn face.

“What do you do when you see one?” I asked.

“You pray, son.”

…

I awoke in the darkness of the desert night – the lantern still burning beside me. The sky was still pitch and starless. I was propped up against the old tree a dozen feet from the grave of M. Rutherford.

I scrambled to my feet, embarrassed at falling asleep the first night of the job. How could I let that happen?

I tried to shake the haze. I had nearly forgotten the lantern on the ground next to me. I stooped down to grab it and in the silence of the early morning hours, I heard something I hadn’t heard out here before.

The sound of laughter.

Not a child’s laugh, or the laugh of an adult, but something else. Horrid. Raspy. Like a tin pan scraped across a rock. A chitter.

I peered around, lantern in hand.

Where was the old man?

The chittering continued and I felt sweat pour down my back. My shirt was damp all over. I adjusted one of my suspenders as I glanced around me, peering into the veil of darkness beyond the halo of the lantern’s glow.

The chittering continued as I approached M. Rutherford’s grave. I saw the dirt appeared disturbed. Maybe a coyote had begun to dig? I saw a stick as well, curiously sharp at the tip. I hadn’t seen it earlier tonight. There weren’t a great many sticks in the dirt, rocks, and scrub.

My eyes drifted from the curious stick to the pile of dirt. There were small tracks on the soil. But the toes seemed wrong for coyotes. I focused on them and noticed they were about the size of a child’s feet, but the impressions of the toes were much longer, twice or maybe three times. These weren’t delicate dots in the dirt but something foul.

I’d seen tracks of kids in the dirt. The ball of the foot appeared all wrong in these tracks.

Goblins weren’t any more real than they were when I was a kid, I told myself.

Where was the old man?

I suddenly remembered my Mother’s advice. Pray. But I hadn’t been in a church in a long time.

I slumped over to old Rutherford’s marker and pulled a shillelagh from the small of my back, tucked into my pants. Couldn’t afford a gun, but this would do. Always did.

The air was still and silence was all I sensed as I slowly swung the lantern in an arc ahead of me.

The old man’s boots crept into view, lying on the ground, toes up and slanted. I followed the boots and saw his legs. I traced the rest of his body by lantern light and saw the old man lying in the dirt, blood pooling beneath his head from a trickle at his temple.

I yelped and began to push forward. The halo of the lantern exposed more of the space around him – a patch of dust and grass.

Then, a rock. A bloody rock.

Then two small feet, just near the old man.

I stopped. I followed the feet, up to a small torso that lept back into the dark as soon as I saw it.

Whatever it was was now cloaked in shadow again. Just beyond the ring of lantern light, I saw two pinpoints of light, shining. 

Then four. 

Then six.

The chittering resumed, shriller and more menacing. I took a deep breath and stepped closer to the old man and thrust the lantern forward again. The tiny feet and bodies caught up in the halo began to hiss and shift.

They were all distinct enough but of a certain character. Each was about the size of a child, but impossibly adult in appearance, with thin, craggy faces. Long reddish whiskers, beards, and hair jutted out from their heads. Their fingers were long, pointed, and black, almost like claws.

The child’s hand, but with even longer fingers that were painted black.

And they all wore some variation of small leather boots, more like moccasins, a cloth sack for their bodies, and curious red caps made from rotting wool.

Immediately they scattered from the old man’s body. I couldn’t follow the three, but I turned my attention to the old man and set down the lantern. I couldn’t tell if he was alive or dead, but the blood worried me. I began to frantically drag him to our charge for the night, the grave of M. Rutherford. I would swap between him and the lantern, never dropping my club.

Behind me, I heard the frantic sounds of digging and those horrible chitters. I stopped dragging the old man toward the grave and snatched up the lantern again, throwing my body toward the sound, screaming, hollering, and crying at the goblins. I went wild and flailed as I stumbled toward the dirt pile.

The light caught the tail end of one as it lept back into the darkness. I practically fell face-first into the loose soil but steadied myself on the stone as I slammed my shoulder into it. It hurt, but I quickly threw the arm forward and thrust the lantern ahead of me like a shield, my back sliding against the headstone. I put all my weight against it. I kept hollering.

I barked and swore, waving around my club as I rose to my feet against the headstone. In the darkness, just beyond light’s reach, I saw the shining eyes. Behind them, the first glimpses of dawn, and pointed, horrid goblin silhouettes framed against early purple and red bands on the horizon.

Silhouettes that split up to surround the grave. Surround me.

The three moved closer, seemingly desperate. I whipped the lantern around, trying to shine as much light on each of them as I could, but they would skitter closer when my lantern was away from them. Each swing brought two more toward me, ever slightly.

“Shit. Go away!”

They said nothing. All I heard was a chittering from all around. Tin pan laughs.

I gripped tighter at the shillelagh with my free hand and raised it. I readied my swing.

The first stick hit me on the thigh and dropped me to the ground. I glanced down to see my blood streaming down my trouser leg. My lantern had dipped, but I raised it aloft again as I heard them shift and scurry. I crawled to the dirt mound that covered M. Rutherford and began swinging. I knocked away a second stick that was heading right for my neck.

I heard them chitter as I swung desperately. I heard their sticks clatter.

A raspy voice began to call “Deliver me from my enemies, O God; be my fortress against those who are attacking me” and the chittering grew into strange, piercing screams. Screams like a wild critter being torn apart by wolves.

I watched as these goblins scampered off, their red, wild hairs streaming behind them. They fled into the rapidly vanishing dark as the sun continued to creep over the horizon. One dropped its cap.

The old man hobbled over. Blood trickled down from the side of his head and soaked the thick starched jacket collar.

“If ya ain’t a god fearin’ man, this certainly probably pushed ya to it.”

I nodded and began to inspect my leg. I set the lantern on the dirt next to me. The wound was small. Just a knick, all things considered.

“I wasn’t expectin’ three of ‘em,” I said.

The old man slid to the ground next to me. He put his weight on my shoulder to set himself down easy.

“Well, ol’ Rutherford was a big fella. Plenty of blood and leather to go around.”

I rubbed a dirty hand across my face to clear the sweat. I felt tainted by the night.

“Hey kid, look at that.”

The old man gestured a few feet away. On the dusty ground was a woolen red cap, tangled, frayed, and blotched with all manner of filth. It appeared stiff in spots.

I held the lantern aloft again, and at the edge of the late morning’s darkness, I saw a stick, gnarled, sharp, and a little crimson. The stick dug into the hat and scraped it out of the light.

The old man and I sat, hearing the chitters in the dark fade into the distance.

The post Short Story: “Redcaps” appeared first on hpkomics.com.