"He was a killer, a thing that preyed, living on the things that lived, unaided, alone, by virtue of his own strength and prowess, surviving triumphantly in a hostile environment where only the strong survive."
That, of course, is a description of a wild dog from the menagerie of San Francisco's great storyteller Jack London. But it can also be a successful book editor in today's wolf-eat-wolf world of big- time book publishing.
In Mike Nichols' enchanted 1994 movie, Wolf, we meet a failing book editor, Jack Nicholson, who, sorry to say, would rather purr than bark. Because he's a goat staked out for the kill, meek and mild Jack is about to succumb to the claw and fang of the monsters around him -- not the gibbering ogres that hide behind bookshelves in editorial offices, and come out at night to hide author contracts, mix-up manuscripts and insert misspellings and inaccuracies in freshly proof-read books – but assassins who can kill a career with an e-mail or fax.
In his case, Nicholson has two creatures to deal with: the jackal- like James Spader, as vicious and as smiling a villain as one might find in a Grimm's fairy tale or an MBA executive program, and the nightmarish Christopher Plummer, the nastiest and most treacherous boss since Genghis Khan, the sort of corpse-eating, bone-crunching sneak who gives hyenas a bad name. Both actors are at the top of their game, and it's a delight to watch them work their nastiness.
Fortunately for the Nicholson character, he gets bitten by a werewolf, and we all know what that means, kiddies.
Like one of Jack London's canines on the prowl: "He became quicker of movement... swifter of foot, craftier, deadlier, more lithe, more lean with iron like muscle and sinew, more enduring, more cruel more ferocious, and more intelligent."
All this without having to spend a minute on a tread mill or give up steak ("I said bloody rare!") . Sometimes there is justice in this world.
As if this wasn't enough of a bonus for getting nibbled by a werewolf, he falls in love with a dirty-minded Little Red Riding Hood, the toothsome Michelle Pfeiffer. And his ill-wishers soon find out they've bitten off more than they can chew.
Ingenious Mike Nichols has trapped the old werewolf legends – as told in the Universal Pictures Lon Chaney movies – and given them a new, giggle-filled twist.
But if you have a feeling that we're not in tranquil Transylvania any more, you're right. This is New York City, where the pointy skyscrapers look like fangs against the midnight sky, and a chill wind at the stroke of 12 can suddenly come howling down Broadway. Even so, a newly minted werewolf in Gotham has appointments to keep and rivals to slay. And to do the job properly, he's now armed with useful new office skills, like the ability to hear whispered workplace gossip blocks away and a sensitive nose that tells him who's been sipping tequila at the breakfast table.
However, he can't be a 9-to-fiver forever. A wolf-man needs to make time for fun, like one of Jack London's animal heroes: "But especially he loved to run in the dim twilight of the summer midnights, listening to the subdued and sleepy murmurs of the forest, reading signs and sounds as a man may read a book, and seeking for the mysterious something that called -- called, waking or sleeping, at all times, for him to come."
As you might expect, evening is chow-down time in the Big Apple. But what happens in Central Park stays in Central Park, minus a hand or two.
Blending chills, kills and giggles, Mike Nichols has created a marvelous tale for our time. And with the wondrous Jack Nicholson, who can be both blithe and bloodcurdling at the same instant, he has a creature any monster-maker would be proud of. Glorious special effects, great ensemble acting, and laugh-out-loud wit – the sort of insightful and caustic comments that over the years Mike Nichols rewarded us with, like so many jalapeño-flavored candy bars -- make Wolf an engaging fable for grownups ... but one that you might not want to view just before bed-time; especially if you sleep with an open window with the moon shining down.
(A tip of the old Davy Crockett coonskin cap to perennial best- seller Jack London, an acute observer of wild animals and wild writers, whose century-old canine heroes would do very well in modern Manhattan ... if it ever came down to the crunch.)
