Sometimes, a film lands on your plate that makes you question not only cinema, but also your own life choices. Wolves of Wall Street (2002), directed by David DeCoteau, is one such experience. On paper, it’s American Psycho meets The Howling—a sharp satire about greed, finance, and lycanthropy. In execution, it’s Scooby-Doo on Valium, without the dog, without the budget, and without a shred of fur.
Grab your silver pens, folks. This is going to be rough.
Wolf of Yawn Street
The story follows Jeff Allen (William Gregory Lee), a wide-eyed hopeful who dreams of becoming a Wall Street hotshot. He’s the kind of character who looks like he just fell out of a Gap catalog and wandered onto the wrong set. Instead of a Gordon Gekko-inspired tale of ruthless ambition, Jeff stumbles into Wolfe Brothers brokerage—where the brokers are literally wolves. Werewolves. Yes, the guys doing hostile takeovers by day are doing throat rips by night.
It’s a fun premise, but the movie executes it with the grace of a drunk intern at a Goldman Sachs happy hour. Instead of biting satire, we get literal biting—shot mostly in dimly lit apartments where the wolves are implied but never shown. Because why spend money on werewolf makeup when you can have Eric Roberts lounging around delivering dialogue like he’s reading off a cocktail napkin?
Eric Roberts: Payday in Full Moon
Let’s talk about Eric Roberts as Dyson Keller, Jeff’s mentor. The man has charisma, sure, but here he’s operating at about 15% power—just enough to pay his rent, not enough to raise his eyebrows. Roberts spends most of his time whispering vaguely menacing things like “Join the pack” while wearing suits that look stolen from a community theater production of Wall Street: The Musical.
Imagine Al Pacino in The Devil’s Advocate if Pacino had replaced every fiery monologue with a halfhearted shrug and a sigh. That’s Roberts here.
Wolves? What Wolves?
For a movie called Wolves of Wall Street, you’d expect, I don’t know, some wolves. Maybe some fur. Maybe one transformation scene. But no, the closest we get to lycanthropy is heavy breathing, cutaway shots, and the occasional flash of eyes glowing like a child’s Halloween mask.
The werewolves in this film spend more time debating real estate and networking at bars than they do tearing out throats. In fact, the only thing scarier than these “wolves” is the lighting—dim, murky, and clearly designed to hide the budget. Half the time it looks like the cameraman forgot to pay the electric bill.
It’s like the director thought: “What if we made a werewolf movie without the wolves? Just vibes.”
The Girlfriend Problem
Enter Annabella (Elisa Donovan), Jeff’s girlfriend. She’s the film’s moral compass, which is a shame because her compass appears broken. Jeff cheats on her, lies to her, and literally bites her, turning her into a werewolf. Her reaction? Not horror, not rage—just mild annoyance, like someone double-booked her yoga class.
Her big contribution to the plot is giving Jeff a silver pen. Yes, in a movie about Wall Street werewolves, the climactic weapon is office stationery. Forget silver bullets—apparently, a pen is not only mightier than the sword, it’s also mightier than the wolf.
Death by Party Foul
The kills, when they do occur, are laughably bad. A drunk tries hitting on Annabella at a party, and Jeff responds by ripping out his throat. Instead of gasps or screams, the extras react like someone spilled beer on the carpet. Later, Jeff’s werewolf packmates attack random humans, but the deaths are staged with such lethargy that even the corpses look bored.
The supposed climax, where Jeff and Annabella fight the wolves, feels like a dress rehearsal for a play that never opened. People fall over, growl a bit, and then collapse. The camera cuts before anything remotely resembling action happens. It’s as if the film is terrified of its own premise.
Homoerotic Subtext Without the Sub
DeCoteau is infamous for filling his films with shirtless men and prolonged locker-room energy, and Wolves of Wall Streetis no exception. There’s enough homoerotic tension here to power an entire season of Queer as Folk. The problem isn’t the subtext itself—queer-coded horror can be fascinating. The problem is that here it’s so clumsy, it feels less like subtext and more like someone forgot to write actual dialogue.
Conversations go like this:
Jeff: “Do I really have to join the pack?”
Mentor: (leans close, whispers) “You want it. Don’t fight it.”
Cut to the two of them brooding shirtless in soft lighting. It’s less The Howling and more Abercrombie & Fitch: Full Moon Edition.
Budget Cuts, Literally
This movie looks cheap. Not charmingly low-budget, not gritty indie cheap—just cheap cheap. Sets are bare apartments and boardrooms. Outdoor scenes are clearly stolen shots on New York streets without permits. The “special effects” consist of glow filters and sound effects you could find on a free CD-ROM in 2002.
Even the editing feels like it was done by someone testing Windows Movie Maker for the first time. Scenes linger awkwardly. Transitions drag. Half the time you’re not sure if the movie’s over or if your DVD player froze.
The Ending That Refuses to Die
Of course, no bad horror film would be complete without a cliché ending. After Jeff and Annabella “kill” the wolves, they stroll away in triumph. But wait! The supposed alpha opens his eyes right before the credits. Oooo, spooky! Except it’s not. It’s just lazy. It’s the cinematic equivalent of a shrug: “We didn’t know how to end it, so… sequel bait?”
Spoiler alert: no one was begging for Wolves of Wall Street 2: The Quickening.
Why It’s Accidentally Hilarious
And yet, despite all of this, the film is entertaining—but only if you approach it as unintentional comedy. The dialogue is wooden, the acting melodramatic, and the kills laughable. Watching these supposed predators sit around in blazers discussing “the pack” is like watching a furry-themed book club.
There’s even meme-worthy gold here. John Barrowman once admitted he did Shark Attack 3: Megalodon for the money. I’d love to hear William Gregory Lee explain how many car payments Wolves of Wall Street covered.
Final Verdict
Wolves of Wall Street promises financial horror, greed, and fur-covered carnage. What it delivers is shirtless stockbrokers brooding in apartments, a silver pen duel, and Eric Roberts phoning in his performance from what looks like a comfortable armchair.
It’s not scary. It’s not thrilling. It’s barely a movie. But it is funny—just not on purpose. If you’re looking for a genuine horror experience, run far away. But if you want a drinking game, this might be the greatest comedy Wall Street never asked for.
