AN AMERICAN WEREWOLF IN PARIS
RATING: ** (out of ****)
Hollywood / 1:39 / 1997 / R (language, gore, brief nudity, muted sex) Cast: Tom Everett Scott; Julie Delpy; Vince Vieluf; Phil Buckman; Julie Bowen; Pierre Cosso; Tom Novembre; Thierry Lhermitte Director: Anthony Waller Screenplay: Tim Burns; Tom Stern; Anthony Waller
It's a sad, ironic thing when a werewolf movie lacks bite, but such is the case with "An American Werewolf in Paris." This pseudo-sequel's tiny feet fail to fill the sizeable shoes of John Landis' 1981 cult hit "An American Werewolf in London," and sorely missed is the original's deft one-two punch of dark thrills and darker humor. This effort is decent but could benefit from a Mike Nichols makeover -- his 1994 "Wolf" was a biting satire, a sizzling romance and a supernatural thriller, all of which "Paris" obviously aspires to be. The film dangerously courts disaster, but a few weirdly charming elements keep things watchable.
The movie opens as a trio of horny college grads arrive in Paris, the latest destination in their "daredevil tour of Europe." Andy (Tom Everett Scott) plans to show buddies Brad (Vince Vieluf) and Chris (Phil Buckman) up by climbing to the top of the Eiffel Tower and swan-diving off -- bungee cord tied tight, of course. But Andy's stunt is interrupted by the presence of a beautiful, distraught French beauty (Jule Delpy) also prepared to pounce from the landmark, but with suicidal intent. He saves her, much to her chagrin, and escapes the ordeal with a couple of nasty bruises and one of the girl's shoes.
Cinderella she's definitely not, though. Her name is Serafine, and when the moon is full ... let's just say she sprouts hair in more places than the armpits. But the recovering Andy thinks he has seen the love of his life, and devotes his vacation to tracking her down. The pursuit leads him into the underground of a Paris club -- actually a lycanthrope-run front to lure scum like American tourists to their snack-food doom -- where he is chased and attacked by a werewolf, and thus becomes one himself. Brad is killed in the ensuing havoc, and is doomed to follow Andy in the form of a decomposing nag, whose only release is the murder of the creature that mauled him. Andy, on the other hand, must eat the heart of his attacker to reverse his curse.
The first half-hour or so is pretty solid silliness, but things take a turn for the worse once Andy begins his induction into the wereworld. "Paris"' agenda quickly becomes overstuffed; everybody's either a wolf or a zombie, and the movie seems so intent on delivering the bloody goods that it forgets to step back occasionally and let its audience breathe. It's good when a film moves fast, but not this fast -- it's all too easy to lose track of what's going on, who's after who, how character motivation relates to the unfolding action, etc. The hyper editing doesn't help, turning already-sloppy sequences into visual disasters (watch how abruptly and haplessly a particular bedroom interlude segues into an all-out chase through the streets).
"American Werewolf"'s computer-generated creatures aren't as polished as those of recent fare like, say, "Starship Troopers," but I rather liked their design. These and other generally modest effects shots somehow manage to work despite being released in the year of "Titanic"; the afore-mentioned Eiffel Tower plummet (scored, by the way, to an excellent remix of Better Than Ezra's "Normal Town") isn't by any means spectacular, but is a nice, ludicrous scene nonetheless. Despite that famous Paris landmark's cameo, though, the movie utilizes none of the city's swank ambiance. If the natives didn't keep speaking with French accents, this might as well have been "An American Werewolf in Peoria." Also unwisely nixed is a stunner of a transformation scene -- "Paris"' prequel showcased both colorful London locale and creepy mutation effects that bagged it an Oscar.
Tom Everett Scott (so wonderful in "That Thing You Do!") and Julie Delpy (ditto for "Before Sunrise") have a nice chemistry and are genuinely appealing performers. Vince Vieluf stands out among the supporting cast, displaying a goofy charm that will hopefully lead to future projects. There are some priceless sight gags (one involving a flying condom, another with a discharged eyeball) caught up in the middle of this mess, but their effect is muted by lengthy stretches of inane exposition. "An American Werewolf in Paris" isn't as horrid as last fall's forgettable "Bad Moon," but it's no howl either.
© 1997 Jamie Peck E-mail: jpeck1@gl.umbc.edu Visit the Reel Deal Online: http://www.gl.umbc.edu/~jpeck1/
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