Alright, let’s take a full-moon stroll into Licántropo: The Moonlight Murders (1996) — Paul Naschy’s eleventh outing as Waldemar Daninsky, the most melancholy werewolf in cinema history. This is a film with more history than budget, more ambition than editing skill, and more shaggy sincerity than most horror movies dare to risk. And yet, against all odds, it becomes something worth celebrating — a flawed, blood-stained love letter to both its star and to horror itself.
The Howl of a Survivor
First, some context. Paul Naschy, the Spanish Lon Chaney, wrote this script as a form of therapy after a near-fatal heart attack in 1991. That alone gives Licántropo a tragic, deeply personal undercurrent. Every transformation, every howl at the moon, every pained look on Naschy’s weary face feels less like performance and more like a man working through his own mortality. Forget digital de-aging or Hollywood gloss — this is raw, creased, middle-aged horror sincerity. Waldemar Daninsky isn’t just cursed by lycanthropy, he’s cursed by time. And so was Naschy.
This, in fact, was supposed to be his big comeback — his return to Spanish screens after years in the wilderness. Instead, it was bungled by careless direction, uneven distribution, and a release strategy that made it about as accessible outside of Spain as a cursed gypsy amulet. Still, in Madrid, Naschy won Best Actor at the International Film Festival, proving that sometimes awards juries know a beating heart when they see one.
Plot: Nazis, Gypsies, and a Priest with Issues
The film begins in 1944, which immediately sets the tone: if you’re making a werewolf movie and you don’t start with Nazis, are you even trying? A gypsy woman named Czinka sleeps with a Nazi SS officer, gets pregnant, and is told by her tribe that her triplets will include one cursed wolf-child. Naturally, the third child, Waldemar, is pawned off to the Daninsky family because upper-class manners, apparently, can tame lycanthropy. (Spoiler: they cannot.)
Fast-forward fifty years, and Waldemar is a wealthy, greying writer with a beautiful family. He’s also suddenly achy, twitchy, and cranky during full moons. His doctors — including the unfortunately named Dr. Mina Westenra — chalk it up to stress. Yes, the man’s a ticking hairy time bomb, but what he really needs is chamomile tea and yoga.
Meanwhile, bodies start dropping around town, chewed-up like steak tartare. The police blame animals. Waldemar suspects himself. And then comes the film’s curveball: a rogue Catholic priest decides that if God won’t smite the sinners, then he will. So now we’ve got a werewolf and a serial-killer priest competing for the same murder market share.Only in Spain, folks.
The carnage peaks when Waldemar — mid-werewolf rampage — slaughters his own wife and son. That’s when Naschy really leans into the horror of his curse: not just a monster killing strangers, but a man destroying his own life. If you weren’t taking this seriously before, the sight of Waldemar realizing what he’s done will sober you up faster than communion wine.
Finally, the priest goes to murder Waldemar’s daughter, Kinga (horror films: not subtle about naming). Waldemar transforms one last time, and we’re treated to a front-lawn showdown: priest vs. werewolf, crucifix vs. claws. The priest loses. Waldemar, broken and bloodied, is put down by Dr. Westenra with the requisite silver bullets. Tragedy complete. Curtain down.
Makeup, Monsters, and Melancholy
Let’s talk about the fur. Romana Gonzalez handled the werewolf makeup, and while it won’t make Rick Baker nervous in his sleep, it has a certain endearing grit. The design feels like a throwback to the Hammer Horror days — a little clunky, very hairy, and more “sad dog in a Halloween costume” than terrifying beast. But here’s the thing: it works. Waldemar Daninsky has always been a tragic monster, more about pathos than polished prosthetics. You don’t watch Licántropo for slick effects; you watch it for the heart beating under all that yak hair.
The violence? Let’s call it enthusiastic. The killings are messy, sometimes confusingly edited, and occasionally veer into accidental slapstick. But when Naschy’s wolf eyes flash with grief and rage, the gore suddenly has weight. You don’t laugh at the rubbery blood — you think about how cursed this poor man is, stuck forever between man and beast.
Cast of the Cursed
The supporting cast does their job, but this is Naschy’s show. He gives Waldemar the same gravitas he’s always brought, even in lesser films. His weariness feels earned, his anguish sincere. This isn’t just horror camp — it’s horror therapy. You can feel Naschy writing himself into the role as a man grappling with aging, mortality, and his own heart nearly giving out.
-
Amparo Muñoz (Dr. Mina Westenra): brings some dignity to a role that mostly involves looking concerned and holding syringes.
-
Luis Maluenda as Reverend Leroux: turns Catholic guilt into Catholic homicide. If there’s ever a “Serial Killer Priest” Hall of Fame, he’s getting a plaque.
-
Eva Isanta as Kinga Daninsky: saddled with the role of “daughter in distress,” but does her best.
-
Rosa Fontana as Elsa, Waldemar’s wife: a performance that deserved more time before getting mauled to death.
Distribution Hell
Here’s the cruel twist: despite Naschy’s blood, sweat, and probably heart medication poured into this, the film never saw release outside Spain. No English dub, no American VHS bargain bin, no cult midnight screenings. It was buried by distributors like a silver bullet in the dark. Horror fans elsewhere had to wait until bootlegs trickled across borders. For a film meant to be Naschy’s grand return, it was more like a quiet funeral.
Dark Humor in the Moonlight
The unintentional comedy comes not from Naschy, but from the direction and editing. Scenes linger too long, cuts come too late, and the police look like they’ve wandered in from a local soap opera. When the priest pulls out his righteous fury, it borders on Monty Python parody: “No one expects the Spanish Inquisition — except the werewolf in the front yard.”
Still, that blend of accidental humor and sincere tragedy is what makes Licántropo strangely endearing. It’s both ridiculous and moving, like watching a Shakespearean actor in a Scooby-Doo costume.
Final Verdict: A Howl Worth Hearing
Is Licántropo a good film? In the technical sense, no. It’s uneven, poorly distributed, and shot with the grace of a VHS instructional video. But in the emotional sense — in the way it captures Naschy’s lifelong devotion to Waldemar Daninsky — it’s glorious. This isn’t a polished Hollywood werewolf flick; it’s a deeply personal swan song, a man baring his scars under the full moon.
It may not scare you, but it might move you. And if you’ve got a taste for flawed gems, melancholy monsters, and horror icons giving their all even when their bodies are failing them, then Licántropo deserves a spot in your midnight rotation.
