SILVER BULLET

In the 1980s, Corey Haim was my main squeeze. Born in the same year as me, this vibrant, lispy, indelibly handsome star set the foundations of my (pre)teen American dream: picket fences, BMX bikes and slutty cheerleaders. Maybe it was his spikey hair? The way he spoke out of the side of his mouth? His perpetual sass? Whatever, his emergence as a genre star (Lost Boys, Watchers, Silver Bullet) has left him lingering in my cinematic dreamscape long after his tragic demise. I still flock to Corey’s handful of horror movies, 30 years later, for a dose of nostalgic creature feature comfort.

Let’s be clear: Silver Bullet isn’t a great werewolf movie. It’s not even a good one. Stephen King has written better, less-familiar stories, tension never really builds and the werewolf effects have a well-cuddled Care Bear quality that make you want to rub the monster’s belly for rainbow wishes. Things in it’s favour? Some cult-coddling one-liners (“… The guy gets wolfier”), Gary Busey turned up to 12 as alcoholic, womanising Uncle Red, Everett McGill’s demon preacher and THAT wheelchair (a suped-up mobility aid that defines “pimped”).

Silver Bullet works well as an aperitif for better monster movies or in a double-dip sharing platter with Haim’s other less-than-stellar horror adaptation, (this time of Dean Koontz’s novel) Watchers. But you’ll never stop me re-watching it long after I’ve grown tired of the grand-daddy of 1980s werewolf pics (you know the one).