Wolf.

Wolf is a monster movie for people who keep crystals in their homes to promote spiritual harmony. It's a horror film for men who are trying to discover the warrior within, for women who yearn to run with the werewolves.

On a country road, a wolf bites a gentle, high-minded book editor (Jack Nicholson), and upon him a wolfish spirit descends. His vision and hearing wondrously sharpen and his sex life improves. When his protege, a yuppie weasel (James Spader) steals his job and seduces his wife, Nicholson bares his fangs figuratively and, finally, literally. He wheels and deals ruthlessly, snacks on muggers, negotiates to yes with a billionaire, goes to bed with the rich man's daughter, and grows hair just where it belongs--on his head. Unleash the animal within, the filmmakers seem to be saying, and all will be well. But, when Nicholson nips his betrayer, the latter turns into a rival werewolf and there is all manner of snarling and rending.

Satire? If only it were. Granted, there are a few mischievous bits throughout (as when Nicholson "marks his territory" by urinating on his enemy's shoes), but director Mike Nichols's languorous pacing and Guiseppe Rotunno's inappropriately serene photography dissipate the humor as well as any suspense or creepiness. In fact, much of Nichols's direction is employed in diffusing the potential drama of any given scene. Take the one in which Nicholson finally wins the heart of Michelle Pfeiffer, who plays the billionaire's daughter. The dialogue is witless enough: Pfeiffer is supposed to melt just because her suitor relates how he made spiritual contact with a wolf. Wouldn't that make this no-nonsense female look for the nearest exit instead of making room for this weirdo in her bed? But perhaps the scene would work if a clever choice of close and medium shots allowed the actors to show something erotic brewing beneath the words. But Nichols stages the whole scene as a single long shot with the two actors sitting by a river. Nicholson drones on while the river dominates the screen, our most entertaining ham actor upstaged by water. I suppose we should be grateful that the director kept the lid on Nicholson during the expositional scenes but the trouble is, the lid never comes off. Pfeiffer looks distracted and only James Spader entertains as the yuppie heel.

Did Mike Nichols call all the celebrated craftsmen and actors who worked on this film into a room just before shooting began to assure them that all their artistry wasn't going to waste on a mere horror flick? that they were actually going to use the horror genre as a pretext to explore the primal rage that lurks under the skin of every civilized human being? Did he then pop Robert Bly videos into the VCR and read excerpts from Jung? Did everyone in the room fall asleep? Was anyone awake during the shoot?

Wolf is an example of potentially enjoyable junk destroyed by the pseudo-seriousness of pretentious filmmaking. Not a howl, just an overly refined yawp.