Some horror films sink their teeth into you. The Ancines Woods tries, but forgets where it left its dentures. Billed as a psychological horror drama and based on the chilling tale of Spanish werewolf-turned-serial-killer Manuel Blanco Romasanta, this 1970 slow-burn from Pedro Olea is more of a light simmer in dirty bathwater. It’s the kind of film that smells like damp wool and regret.
For a movie that’s supposed to be about lycanthropy, murder, and rural hysteria, it moves with all the urgency of a drunk donkey on a foggy Galician trail. What should be a terrifying descent into madness ends up playing like a PSA against staying awake.
Plot: What Plot?
Let’s try to unravel what passes for a plot. The Ancines Woods follows Benito Freire, a miserable traveling peddler in 19th-century Galicia. He’s got epilepsy, a cart full of cheap junk, and the social charm of a haunted turnip. Every time he seizes up in public, the townsfolk whisper that he’s either possessed or a werewolf. Superstitions swirl faster than the camera pans, and before long, Benito starts believing the hype.
This sounds like the setup to something good, right? A man consumed by myth, driven mad by fear, transforming into a killer? Don’t get your hopes up. Rather than plunging into bloody carnage or thrilling terror, The Ancines Woods prefers to meditate slowly — very slowly — on Benito’s bleak existence, pausing only to show you the Galician countryside and the occasional expressionless stare.
Watching this movie is like reading Crime and Punishment if Dostoevsky had been hit over the head with a church pew mid-sentence and then forgotten what crime was.
José Luis López Vázquez: A Wolf in Cheap Clothing
Credit where it’s due: José Luis López Vázquez throws himself into the role of Benito with enough grim commitment to suggest he actually believes he’s playing Hamlet in flannel. Known primarily for comedic roles before this, Vázquez is almost unrecognizable — not because of makeup or transformation, but because he looks absolutely dead inside. His eyes have seen things. Unfortunately, the audience hasn’t.
Benito mopes through the film like a man who lost his wallet in 1847 and never got over it. He’s constantly on the verge of doing something interesting — attacking a woman, losing his grip on reality, sprouting claws — but the film slams the brakes every time it nears actual horror. It’s as if the director was scared of scaring anyone.
Horror? Not So Much
Don’t come to The Ancines Woods expecting werewolf transformations, full moons, or even a growl. The horror here is internal, subtle, and — let’s be real — practically inaudible. It whispers, not howls. And sometimes it forgets to whisper.
Director Pedro Olea wanted psychological realism. What he delivered was psychological ennui. The film drips with dread like a leaky faucet — a slow, plodding sense of something bad maybe happening eventually if you just keep watching long enough, but don’t count on it.
Instead of tension, we get atmosphere. And by atmosphere, I mean lots of walking. Benito walks. People talk. Benito walks some more. At some point he stares blankly into the distance, and you start wondering if this was really about a werewolf or just a man slowly realizing the 1800s suck.
Censorship, Subtext, and Other Mood Killers
Thanks to Spanish censorship under Franco, the film couldn’t exactly go full-throttle into horror or critique the church like the source novella did. Instead, it had to sneak its ideas in like contraband under a priest’s cassock. The result? A film that feels like it’s trying to say something important but keeps coughing awkwardly whenever you get too close to the message.
Religious institutions, ignorance, repression — all of that simmers beneath the surface. But with the violence toned down and the anti-church sentiment defanged, the movie ends up wagging its finger politely instead of biting hard. It’s Carriewithout the prom scene. The Exorcist if everyone just agreed to go to therapy.
Production Value: Fog, Mules, and Eternal Sadness
Shot in washed-out browns and greys, The Ancines Woods looks like it was filmed entirely through a window smeared with bacon grease. It’s moody, sure. But also oppressively drab. Every frame practically begs for a pop of color, or a second take, or maybe just a break from staring into Vázquez’s twitching eyelid.
The sound design is equally subtle — and by subtle, I mean it sounds like someone recorded the entire film with a dying Walkman and a ham sandwich. If you’re not fluent in 1970s Spanish mumble-acting, subtitles will be your only friend.
Final Verdict: The Werewolf Movie That Forgot the Werewolf
The Ancines Woods is what happens when you make a horror movie for people who think horror is a moral failing. It’s beautifully bleak, meticulously acted, and utterly uninterested in entertaining anyone. It has a big brain and a black heart but no blood pumping between them. A movie about a man being consumed by monstrous legend should not be this allergic to tension, gore, or, frankly, fun.
If you’re into long walks, Catholic guilt, and silent existential collapse, this one’s for you. But if you were hoping for fangs, howling, or even a decent chase scene — don’t worry. You’re safe here.
Rating: 1.5 out of 5 Howls (all internalized and whispered in Latin)
Would recommend only if:
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You’re writing a dissertation on Spanish cinema under Franco.
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You enjoy movies where “nothing happens” is considered a compliment.
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You’ve always wanted to see The Wolfman directed by a melancholic tax accountant.
Everyone else? Skip the woods. There are scarier things in your laundry basket.
