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“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.”

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