Once Upon a Time in Bad Taste
John R. Leonetti’s Wolves at the Door is the kind of horror movie that feels like a dare. Specifically: “I dare you to make a movie about one of the most infamous real-life murders in Hollywood history and somehow make it less scary than a soggy episode of Dateline.” And yet, here we are.
This 2016 “loosely based” retelling of the Sharon Tate murders is both a disaster and—if you have a dark enough sense of humor—a strangely fascinating one. It’s what happens when studio horror decides to cosplay as true crime but forgets to bring empathy, tension, or, well, anything else.
And still, there’s something perversely fun about watching a film that’s so determined to be serious while tripping over every possible line of good taste. It’s the cinematic equivalent of watching someone confidently walk into a glass door.
Plot? Loosely. Morality? Looser.
The film opens with a married couple, John and Mary, awoken by strange noises in their 1969 suburban home. They investigate. It does not go well. Blood is smeared on the walls, “Little Pig” is whispered menacingly, and somewhere, a Warner Bros. executive claps, thinking this is atmosphere.
Then we meet our main victims—I mean, characters. Sharon (Katie Cassidy), Abigail (Elizabeth Henstridge), Wojciech (Adam Campbell), and Jay (Miles Fisher) are four friends having a farewell dinner before Abby moves back to Boston. They’re attractive, kind, and very good at ignoring every possible sign that they’re about to be murdered.
After dinner, they return to Sharon’s house, which is about to host the most awkward afterparty since Eyes Wide Shut. Phones stop working, gates malfunction, and there’s an abundance of creepy knocking. It’s less “Charles Manson’s America” and more “Haunted Ikea.”
Soon, intruders arrive—faceless, whispering figures who apparently moonlight as competitive door breakers. One by one, everyone meets a bloody end, mostly through what looks like enthusiastic stabbing and subpar choreography.
By the time “Pig” is smeared on the door, you realize the movie’s big message is: “We made this because we could.”
The Conjuring Universe: Now Featuring Historical Trauma!
Technically, this movie takes place in The Conjuring universe, which is hilarious because Wolves at the Door contains approximately zero demons, one (1) sledgehammer, and an overwhelming sense that someone is going to get sued.
It’s as if the filmmakers said, “What if we made Annabelle again, but instead of a haunted doll, it’s just people, and instead of tension, it’s awkward silence?”
There’s a brief cameo by Eric Ladin as Detective Clarkin, reprising his role from Annabelle. He appears long enough to remind you that you could be watching a better movie.
The idea seems to have been: if we make the Tate murders vaguely supernatural, maybe it won’t feel so exploitative. Spoiler: it still does. In fact, the only thing haunting about this film is its 0% Rotten Tomatoes score—a number so pure it deserves its own memorial plaque.
The Cast: Attractive People, Confused by Doors
Let’s give credit where it’s due: the actors are doing their best with what little they’ve been given. Katie Cassidy brings a fragile warmth to Sharon Tate that almost works—until the script asks her to hide behind furniture and gasp at creaking sounds for twenty minutes.
Adam Campbell’s Wojciech has the honor of delivering the most noble cigarette break in cinematic history before being stabbed by someone who looks like they wandered in from a Slipknot concert. Elizabeth Henstridge’s Abigail gets a few moments of actual terror before the film turns her into a bloodied plot device.
And Miles Fisher, as Jay, sleeps through part of the massacre—arguably the smartest decision in the movie.
Still, everyone’s photogenic suffering gives Wolves at the Door a strangely glossy tone, like an Urban Outfitters ad directed by Satan.
The Villains: The Quietest Hippies in Hollywood
The intruders—our “wolves”—are nameless, faceless, and, unfortunately, personality-free. You’d expect a story inspired by the Manson Family to have some sort of chaotic energy, cultish chanting, or at least one deranged monologue about the end of the world. Instead, these killers communicate mostly through heavy breathing and bad posture.
They appear, they stab, they vanish. They don’t even hum a creepy tune or quote the Beatles like proper Mansonesque murderers. It’s the cinematic version of being ghosted—by ghosts with knives.
If Charles Manson watched this movie, he’d probably sue for defamation on the grounds that his cult at least had style.
The Direction: Atmospheric… in the Way That a Dentist’s Office Is Atmospheric
Director John R. Leonetti (Annabelle, Mortal Kombat: Annihilation — yes, really) tries to create mood through slow pans, dim lighting, and enough shadowy corners to make Batman feel at home. Unfortunately, atmosphere only works when there’s tension to fill it, and here the pacing feels like a slow death from secondhand embarrassment.
Still, credit where it’s due: the film is beautifully shot. Every frame looks like a perfectly lit Instagram story of murder. The blood glows like red velvet cake, the 1960s set design is impeccable, and the wardrobe could make Mad Men jealous.
It’s a gorgeous nightmare—you just wish it had something to say other than “pretty people die quietly.”
The Humor in the Horror
And yet, despite all its missteps, Wolves at the Door has an accidental brilliance to it. The sheer absurdity of its self-serious tone makes it weirdly entertaining.
There’s something darkly funny about how earnestly the film tries to be profound while the script screams, “We ran out of ideas on page twelve.”
Characters whisper things like “Who’s there?” as though it’s a revelation, even though the answer is obviously “murderers.” Every time someone locks a door, it’s immediately broken open, like a cruel game of horror whack-a-mole.
At one point, a character hides in a bathroom, clutching a phone that doesn’t work—and somehow, you start rooting for the intruders just to put everyone out of their misery.
It’s not scary, but it’s kind of hilarious in a “watching-your-toast-burn-but-letting-it-happen” way.
The Legacy of Bad Taste
The real tragedy of Wolves at the Door isn’t its violence—it’s that it wastes a chance to say anything meaningful about violence itself.
Films like Once Upon a Time in Hollywood later handled the same subject matter with wit, style, and sensitivity. Wolvestakes the same event and turns it into background noise for a jump scare.
And yet… it’s almost impressive in its wrongness. Few movies so perfectly embody the phrase, “Who thought this was a good idea?” The fact that it exists at all feels like a cosmic prank, proof that somewhere in the Warner Bros. archives, a cursed wish was granted.
Final Thoughts: A Masterpiece of Misguided Ambition
In a strange way, Wolves at the Door is the most honest horror movie of its decade—not because it’s scary, but because it’s terrifyingly sincere. It genuinely thinks it’s doing justice to the horror of real life. Instead, it becomes a surreal, unintentional comedy about Hollywood’s obsession with packaging trauma as popcorn.
It’s a beautiful, blood-splattered failure—an artless film that somehow circles back to being artful in its cluelessness.
Watching it is like attending a funeral where the eulogy rhymes. You can’t help but laugh, even though you know you probably shouldn’t.
Final Rating: ★★★★☆ (for sheer audacity)
Mood: “True crime, but make it fashion.”
Best Watched With: A stiff drink, a faint sense of moral guilt, and someone willing to say, “Wait, they actually made this?” every five minutes.
