Blackout is the sort of movie that clearly loves werewolf classics so much it decides to put on their skin, wear them around town, and then forget to actually be scary, tense, or even awake half the time. It’s like a melancholy fan letter to The Wolf Man that accidentally got soaked in cheap beer and small-town discourse.
Larry Fessenden is a passionate student of monsters, and you can feel that in every frame. Unfortunately, you can also feel that this is the horror equivalent of “midlife crisis art film”: lots of ideas, lots of references, and not nearly enough bite.
The Sad Werewolf of Upstate New York
Our protagonist, Charley Barrett (Alex Hurt), is an artist in a small upstate New York town who has, as one does, become a werewolf. Not via some epic curse, not via elaborate mythology—he’s just already a monster when the movie starts, like the story began an hour ago and we’re late.
He’s also an alcoholic, depressed, guilt-ridden, and surrounded by people who either vaguely care about him or vaguely hate each other. Which could be powerful, except Blackout somehow manages to take “artist-werewolf in moral crisis” and make it feel like you’re trapped inside an overlong Facebook status.
Charley realizes he keeps killing people every full moon and decides he needs to “find closure” before he’s stopped for good. Instead of, say, chaining himself up, moving to the middle of nowhere, or writing “DO NOT OPEN” on a steel box and locking himself inside, he goes on a weepy farewell tour of everyone he’s ever mildly inconvenienced.
This includes his ex, a pastor, and random locals entangled in a half-baked anti-immigrant conflict. It’s like watching a walking disaster try to apologize to the entire cast of a community theater production before their inevitable mauling.
Monster Movie, Meet Message Movie (Now Fight)
Fessenden clearly wants to do more than just “guy turns into wolf, eats townsfolk.” He crams in:
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A simmering small-town anti-immigrant movement
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Social tensions around racism and xenophobia
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Guilt, addiction, and self-loathing
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The idea of monstrosity as both literal and metaphorical
On paper, that sounds great. In practice, Blackout treats its themes like a buffet plate it refuses to put down. You’ve got the werewolf stuff in one hand, and in the other, long scenes where people argue about immigrants, morality, and local politics with all the subtlety of a Nextdoor thread.
Instead of using the lycanthropy as a sharp metaphor for dehumanization, rage, or otherness, the film mostly just keeps saying, “See? Real people are the monsters too! Get it?” Yes, Larry. We get it. We got it the first five times.
What should feel layered ends up feeling like two different movies awkwardly stitched together: one gloomy creature feature, and one Very Serious Indie Drama about a town being awful. Both undercut each other, like the wolf keeps chewing on the script.
A Werewolf with No Urgency
Horror runs on tension. You know what is famously tense? A ticking clock like “every full moon, I turn into a murder beast and slaughter people I care about.”
You know what Blackout somehow does not have? Tension.
The pacing trudges along like it’s dragging a corpse in snow. Charley moves from person to person in a haze, mumbling variations of “I’m not okay” while everyone else delivers exposition and emotional dialogue that sounds like it wandered in from a rehearsal for another movie.
There’s no visceral sense of dread around the upcoming transformation. No countdown, no escalating stakes, no “oh god the moon is rising and we are out of time.” Just Charley shuffling through his problems like he’s on a depressive bar crawl with fur.
The werewolf attacks, when they finally happen, feel oddly weightless. The carnage is there, in theory, but the scenes never quite achieve that full on “holy hell” impact. The camera either cuts away or hangs back, as if even it is too tired to commit.
The Wolf Man by Way of Group Therapy
Alex Hurt is doing his damnedest. Charley is perpetually haunted, perpetually sad, and perpetually drinking. He’s a walking apology. But the writing keeps him stuck in one mood: morose. There’s no real arc—just variations of guilt and self-hatred, punctuated by blackouts and violence.
By the time Charley tries an assisted suicide with a silver bullet, it should be heart-wrenching: a man so desperate to protect others from himself that he begs for death. Instead, it feels like the movie’s been circling this drain for so long that the moment lands with more resignation than tragedy.
When the bullet fails to kill him and he transforms anyway, you’d think we’d finally get some visceral catharsis. But even his rampage feels weirdly muted, like the werewolf is also depressed and needs a nap between maulings.
Side Characters, Side Plots, Sideways
The supporting cast is stacked with good actors who feel stranded. Addison Timlin, as Charley’s ex Sharon, is saddled with being the only fully functioning adult within a fifty-mile radius. She vacillates between concern, exasperation, and eventually understanding, but the script gives her little to do beyond react, react, and finally shoot.
Motell Gyn Foster as Earl, Joseph Castillo-Midyett as Luis, and others orbit around the central metaphor stew, representing various sides of the community conflict. There’s a whiff of something sharper there—of how fear turns neighbor against neighbor—but it never gels into anything more than background noise.
Barbara Crampton pops up as Kate, and the main scare there is realizing the film has Barbara Crampton and somehow still isn’t more fun. Kevin Corrigan, James Le Gros, and a bunch of genre familiar faces drift through as if they’re all cameos in a shared universe of “indie horror actors trapped in allegories.”
Monsterverse? Maybe Finish This Verse First
In a post-credit scene, Alex Breaux appears as Frankenstein’s monster from Fessenden’s Depraved, hinting at the director’s planned “monsterverse.” It’s a cute nod for fans and a clear tribute to the old Universal monster mash-ups.
The problem is, teasing a shared universe works best when the individual entries feel strong, complete, and tonally confident. Here, it comes off like the film saying, “Don’t worry if this one didn’t totally land—we’ve got more!”
Given that Blackout already struggles to balance its own story, the promise of a future mashup is less exciting and more concerning. It’s like being offered a whole tasting menu after a very uneven appetizer.
Hairy Drama, Bald Horror
The real issue with Blackout is not that it tries to be thoughtful—it’s that it confuses heaviness with depth and slow pacing with seriousness.
You can absolutely make a heartfelt, politically conscious werewolf movie. You can make the monster a vehicle for talking about addiction, guilt, and violence. But you also need:
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A sense of escalating danger
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A clear emotional journey for your lead
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Horror set-pieces that feel like they matter
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The occasional recognition that audiences showed up to be scared, not just lectured and bummed out
Blackout gives you long, earnest conversations, a handful of maulings, and a climax that feels like a foregone conclusion. When Sharon finally puts Charley down, it should be devastating. Instead, it feels like the movie just ran out of full moons.
Final Verdict: Less Howl, More Whimper
Blackout isn’t a disaster. It’s worse: it’s a noble misfire. You can see the care, the reverence for classic monsters, the desire to do something meaningful. But all that intention gets smothered under a shaggy script, sluggish pacing, and horror that never fully commits.
What you end up with is:
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A werewolf movie that’s low on thrills
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A social drama that’s high on talk but light on insight
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A sad, shambling creature feature that keeps insisting it’s profound while you check how much time is left
If you’re a diehard Fessenden fan or a monster-movie completist, you might find things to appreciate: mood, performances, the occasional striking image. For everyone else, Blackout is like being stuck in a long conversation with a very depressed werewolf who keeps promising he’ll tell you something terrifying any minute now.
Eventually, he just sighs, the credits roll, and you’re left thinking: that was a lot of feelings for not a lot of fear.
