A Title That Lied to Me
Let’s start with the obvious: Mexican Werewolf in Texas is not about a Mexican werewolf. I know, I was just as shocked as you. You go in expecting a shaggy beast in a sombrero tearing through cow pastures while mariachi music plays in the background, but no—what you get instead is a chupacabra. And not even a good one. Just a rubber-suited goat-sucker that looks like it wandered out of a Halloween Spirit store clearance bin.
Naming this film Mexican Werewolf in Texas is like ordering a taco and getting a Pop-Tart: confusing, disappointing, and only vaguely edible.
Setting the Scene: Welcome to Goat Hell
The story takes place in Furlough, Texas, self-proclaimed “goat capital of the world.” Right away, that sets the tone. This is not a town where dreams live; this is a town where goats go to die and so do brain cells. The chupacabra shows up, drains goats, then decides to upgrade to people because even movie monsters get sick of eating the same thing every night.
The townsfolk are an oddball collection of stereotypes: horny teens, racist dads, paranoid alien hunters, and a sheriff who probably couldn’t solve a jigsaw puzzle without calling for backup. It’s Friday Night Lights if everyone had a head injury and the big game was against a poorly costumed demon dog.
Our Heroine: Anna Furlough, Narrator of Doom
The film is narrated by Anna Furlough (Erika Fay), who spends most of the runtime gazing off wistfully, longing to escape small-town life. She’s got a boyfriend, Miguel, the local nerdy Mexican-American kid, which is a problem because her dad is about as racist as a Facebook comment section. Anna’s narration is supposed to be poignant, but it mostly sounds like a teen reading her diary aloud while doodling black hearts on the margins.
Her big moment of empowerment comes when she convinces Miguel to shoot her father—who’s dressed up in goat pelts, pretending to be the chupacabra. Yes, this is the big climax: Scooby-Doo cosplay gone wrong.
The Monster: Spirit Halloween Reject
Let’s talk about the chupacabra. Oh, sweet baby Jesus, the chupacabra. This creature is less “terrifying legend of Latin America” and more “guy in a shag rug with vampire teeth glued on.” It leaps out of the shadows, gnaws at throats, and looks about as convincing as a dog in a Halloween costume. At one point, a character actually flashes the monster. Jill, a bubbly teen, literally exposes herself to distract it, which raises questions like: Did the writers just give up? Did the monster sign a nudity clause?
Every attack scene is the same: shaky camera, growling sound effects, ketchup blood, repeat. After the third time, you’re not scared—you’re rooting for the chupacabra to just finish the job and end the movie early.
Social Commentary, or Why Subtlety is Dead
The film makes a ham-fisted attempt at social commentary. It’s about racism, see? The white townsfolk don’t like the growing Mexican-American community, and tensions boil over. But instead of weaving that theme cleverly into the horror, the film just plasters it on like duct tape over a leaky pipe.
Anna’s dad Brad (Mark Halvorson) is the worst offender—an undertaker turned racist vigilante who literally tries to frame his daughter’s boyfriend for murder by dressing up as the monster. This is the kind of “social commentary” that makes you miss the nuance of a sledgehammer to the skull.
The chupacabra isn’t a metaphor; it’s a distraction. By the end, the real monster is prejudice itself, but also the fact that you wasted 90 minutes on this.
Supporting Cast: Corpses in Waiting
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Miguel (Gabriel Gutierrez): Nerd, boyfriend, shooter of racist dads. His defining trait is that he owns a computer, which in small-town horror logic makes him both suspicious and heroic.
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Rosie (Martine Hughes): The smart best friend whose tragic flaw is bringing a bag of raw meat to a monster hunt. Yes, she literally lugs around monster bait. Darwin Award secured.
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Jill (Sara Erikson): She distracts the chupacabra with her boobs. That’s her entire contribution. Representation matters, I guess.
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Cabot Speers (Wolfgang Metzger): An eccentric alien hunter who seems like he wandered in from another film. Or maybe just from a very weird bar.
Every death is predictable, every scream feels rehearsed, and not a single character sticks in your mind longer than it takes the credits to roll.
Direction: Or Lack Thereof
Scott Maginnis directs like someone holding the camera with oven mitts. Every action scene is a jittery mess, as though the editor mistook “tense horror” for “shaky iPhone footage.” Dialogue scenes are worse—flat, plodding, and shot with all the excitement of a DMV instructional video.
There are moments where the film tries to be sexy, funny, or scary, and fails all three at once. Imagine a high school play where everyone forgot their lines and the prop department ran out of budget after building half a goat pen. That’s the vibe.
Highlights (and I Use That Term Loosely)
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The chupacabra reveal: disappointing.
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The racist dad’s Scooby-Doo disguise: hilarious, but not on purpose.
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Jill flashing the monster: baffling.
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Rosie bringing raw meat to a hunt: Darwin Award worthy.
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The narration: pretentious teen angst poetry.
By the time the credits roll, you realize the most horrifying thing in Mexican Werewolf in Texas is the fact that someone thought this script deserved production money.
Why It’s Bad (Beyond the Obvious)
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The title is a scam. There is no Mexican werewolf. None. Zero. False advertising at its finest.
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The monster sucks. When your villain looks like a rejected Muppet, you’ve already lost.
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The social commentary is clumsy. Racism is real, but this movie treats it like a cartoon villain subplot.
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The direction is incompetent. Pacing, tone, atmosphere—all missing.
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The deaths are dull. If your monster movie can’t deliver memorable kills, pack it up.
Final Thoughts: Goat-Sucker or Soul-Sucker?
Mexican Werewolf in Texas is a masterclass in how not to make a horror film. It fails as a creature feature, it fails as social commentary, and it fails as entertainment. The only way to enjoy this film is with a group of friends, a case of beer, and the mutual agreement that you’re here to laugh, not to be scared.
The chupacabra deserves better. Hell, goats deserve better.
