"The Wolfman" stars Benicio Del Toro, which normally means I would readily suffer pain and humiliation and even demonstrate some nonexistent rock- climbing skills if need be, just to see my beloved. It's a lonely quest in Japan, where Del Toro doesn't have quite the following he deserves: He's too craggy, too hairy and just plain weird.
But for me, the fascination holds fast: Del Toro is one of few American actors who never seems to get older so much as creasier and in the most artistic fashion. A textile designer could make millions from color-copying the lines of his face and printing them onto denim surfaces: a distressed look taken to the extreme. He's not a wreck a la Al Pacino (another lovely monster); he's a gloriously decomposed heap, suggestive of some installation item at a posh eco-art gallery. And to play a late Victorian aristocrat (just thinking of the wardrobe possibilities makes me swoon) in a WEREWOLF movie — the only response I could think of was a resounding, "hell yes."
Alas, "The Wolfman" itself turns out to be less than an appropriate vehicle for Del Toro's particular brand of charm: a lot of blood splashes about, but the package falls short on real guts and muscle. And though director Joe Johnston ("Jumanji," "October Sky") tries mightily for class and top-drawer horror of the old-school kind (the film is a remake of a 1941 classic), "The Wolfman" remains a little skimpy, a little mediocre, holding back on the kind of effort that can boost a pack of mere wolves into scary, mesmerizing sex symbols.