Sometimes a movie comes along that asks a simple, elegant question like, “What if werewolves joined a biker gang?” And then that movie answers with a resounding: “We have no idea, but here’s some footage of real bikers getting high while a werewolf attacks a tire.”
Welcome to Werewolves on Wheels, a 1971 cinematic cry for help that combines the anarchic spirit of Easy Rider with the supernatural nonsense of The Howling, only minus the intellect of either. Directed by Michel Levesque — a man who presumably lost a bet — this movie takes two genres, outlaw biker flicks and classic horror, and shoves them together like a peanut butter and motor oil sandwich.
What results is not fusion. It’s confusion. Pure, glorious, engine-revving confusion.
Plot: Satanic Hippies, Hairy Transformations, and Hell’s Hairballs
We open with The Devil’s Advocates, a biker gang whose name tells you all you need to know: these guys aren’t rebels, they’re try-hards. They ride through the California desert in a haze of exhaust fumes, weed smoke, and dialogue that sounds like it was lifted from a truck stop bathroom wall.
Their journey has no real goal, no destination, and no script. Eventually, they stumble across a creepy old church tucked into the desert like Satan’s Airbnb. The robed cultists inside are suspiciously polite, which of course means they’re about to drug everyone, curse them, and turn the gang leader’s girlfriend Helen into a werewolf.
But not a cool werewolf, mind you. She doesn’t transform into a snarling beast — she just gets slightly hairier and picks up a mild tendency to dismember her friends between bong hits.
Soon she bites her boyfriend Adam, the chain-smoking leader whose main skills include looking confused and having the personality of a ham sandwich. Then one by one, the gang gets picked off — not through clever plot twists, but because the film seems to forget they exist until it remembers, “Oh right, this one still hasn’t been mauled in the dark yet.”
The final “twist” involves the surviving bikers returning to the cult’s church to get revenge… only to see themselves in the cult procession. This moment is clearly supposed to be a mind-bending what-the-hell climax, but it mostly plays like the movie itself took acid and wandered into its own third act.
Acting: Werewolves, Yes. Talent, No.
Stephen Oliver plays Adam with all the range of a taxidermy project. He speaks every line like he’s trying to remember what movie he’s in. Donna Anders (as D.J. Anderson) has the thankless job of being the werewolf girlfriend, and to her credit, she screams convincingly and looks great covered in fur and regret.
The rest of the gang consists of actual bikers with no acting experience whatsoever, and it shows. Lines are mumbled, fights are half-hearted, and every conversation feels like someone trying to remember what day it is after six bong hits and a concussion. These people weren’t so much cast as collected from a nearby gas station and bribed with beer.
The real star of the film is Scarf, whose name may be the only thing less intimidating than his performance. There’s also a biker named Mouse, which tells you all you need to know about how seriously this gang takes itself.
Direction & Style: Biker Home Videos with Bonus Growling
Director Michel Levesque has two modes: slow-motion zoom-in and point the camera at the sun and hope for the best. The film was shot in the Santa Ynez Valley, and the desert landscapes are occasionally nice to look at — mostly because nothing else is happening in the frame.
There are long stretches — painfully long stretches — where nothing occurs except bikers riding in circles, chanting, eating beans, or possibly just forgetting they’re being filmed. You could remove all the werewolf content and this would still be a disjointed biker movie… except somehow less coherent.
Transformation scenes are laughably bad. Picture someone awkwardly crouching while the editor overlays stock growling sounds and a close-up of a dog. One particular “attack” scene looks like a guy being tackled by a shag rug in slow motion.
Music: Satanic Banjo Interludes
The soundtrack slaps — if what you’re into is fuzzed-out desert rock recorded in a garage by stoners with a Ouija board. The music is the best part of the film, and I say that knowing it sometimes drowns out the dialogue. Which is a blessing.
Songs feature lyrics like “the devil takes his ride” and “burn the skies tonight,” which make no sense but at least have a beat you can mumble to. If Black Sabbath and a biker bar jukebox had a child, this would be its confused, high school dropout cousin.
Themes: Satan’s Greatest Hits, on a Budget
Is Werewolves on Wheels about free will versus fate? About the seductive power of evil? About the chaos of 1970s counterculture descending into literal hell?
No. It’s about motorcycles and fur suits. That’s it.
This is not a film made to make a point. This is a film made by someone who thought “werewolf” and “biker” sounded cool together in a title, and then forgot to write anything in between. Satan’s presence is limited to vague cultist gestures and off-brand Gregorian chanting. He doesn’t show up, doesn’t say a word, and frankly should sue for lack of representation.
Final Thoughts: Pure Exploitation, Zero Explanation
Werewolves on Wheels is one of those films that’s so committed to being bad, it starts to become oddly respectable. Not good, mind you — this movie couldn’t find good with a flashlight and a priest. But at least it has a vibe.
It’s the kind of movie you show to your friends just to see who makes it to the end. It’s a film where the werewolf plot is secondary to watching men named “Pill” and “Movie” ride across the desert looking like the world’s least threatening death metal band.
If Easy Rider was made by Satan’s interns and edited by a distracted raccoon, you’d get this.
★☆☆☆☆ (1 out of 4 stars)
Hell’s Angels meet Hell’s Hair Salon. The only thing truly terrifying is the editing.
