Thinking about Wolfen…


As mentioned, over the last few months, I have been revisiting some of the films that have interested and inspired me over the years. I have written and published a few poems about them, but I also wanted to talk about them in other ways.

My interest in Wolfen is an emotional interest – and I am curious about its impact on me as a work of (albeit flawed) art. This impact resides in that poetic and visceral realm where symbols and meanings float about and resonate through dreams and ideas. I don’t think I am alone in positing it as one of the more singular outings in cinematic horror of the 80s. Culturally, of course, its competitor in horror and wolf-lore was American Werewolf in London (released in the same year) – a far more prosaic and straightforward genre film, although, of course, not without merit or cultural resonance.

In Wolfen, we are asked to take the side of the wolves as free spirits and to absorb the idea that they are residing with us and alongside us, adapted to the slums and no-man’s land of late 70’s/early 80’s New York.  The bronx is presented as a kind of picturesque hinterland inhabited by the homeless, gangs of disaffected youth, and rapacious predators (who may or may not be supernatural).

One is tempted to draw parallels with the current commercial television series “Zoo,” an almost comical reprise on the paranoiac fantasy of vengeful animals working together to bring the downfall of their tormentors – humankind. The watered down violence and pedestrian plotting fall into parody at times – witness the mob of (apparently) malevolent domestic cats gathered in the spreading boughs of an oak in well-heeled Brentwood, miaowing amiably. There is something gritty to the zeitgeist of human exploitation and its cost to non-human beings, however.

No doubt we all harbour a secret fear of being brought to account for our cruelties – the return of the repressed.

In his article on Wolfen, Jeff Kinken decries another intimation – the wedging of gentrification into the slums and the neo-liberalist ethos of post-1960s America. Using an interview with Michael Wadleigh (the film’s activist director) Kinken argues that the Wolfen are “scavengers [who act to] clear the South Bronx of the last vestiges of the detritus the property developers are desperate to remove from the territory – those who did not escape in the opening salvos of planned shrinkage – in order to wipe the slate clean so they can redevelop the area, build luxury high rises and office buildings.  The wolfen here act as the shock troops of gentrification. ” So, far from representing the ideals of tree-hugging romanticists, the Wolfen are paving the way for development, eating their way through the “detritus” of the city (in addition to a few notable power-brokers) yet acting to stymie the developer’s dream project.

But when I watch Wolfen, I am not left weighing arguments for and against the film as a piece of propaganda. I am left feeling the deep sadness of loss – the loss of land and the loss of home. The loss of the idea of home and alienation from one’s very being, from one’s grounding and ground. It’s something that haunts me as it haunts the film. For what is gentrification but the loss of one set of homes in making the way clear for another set of homes. The loss of feeling at home and sharing ownership, however temporary. Home is “a place where something flourishes, is most typically found, or from which it originates”, it is the place where one can, most of all, be oneself. And that is what haunts me about Wolfen. That the people in it struggle to be at home, to be themselves in the world.

Are we all in the process of being displaced?


stomach_oil_on_linen (1)

Blue Stomach



Red Net


Wolfen 2







Leaning from his limousine,

in pleasant post-cocaine haze

the mayor of the city

ambles after his wife

through the spinning sails

of Battery Park.

In after-five splendour

her nipples visible

through a white halter

she watches as they tear out his throat

and come for her

through the split screen windmill,

leaving the bodies for forensics.


Who would’ve thought that turning the sods on


would be so dangerous.



The wolves are out

loping through the city

at one with the

silhouetted ruins

a smoking waste of

haze and ash,

they take the hand of the chief

and toss it over the curb,

his fingers still twitching the grip of

a loaded pistol.



In the penthouse of the entrepreneur

the lead investigator and his lover

turn their arms through the

architectural model

white powder flying over

slums transformed

we won’t take your land

with the sweep of his body

and a terrible discontinuity

all our ideals are reduced to dust

in the shag pile.


Vertical venetians split

like tendons in this pulsing,

glittering self-strata,

reeking with hedge-funds

and well-embroidered egoism,

a fugitive sense of mastery

like smoke

alongside the pitiless facts of




Up on the Brooklyn bridge

the group parade of lost souls

tangles with rust

dancing on the rivets

in the rarefied air of the umpteenth tier

as on a drumbeat of

tautest animal hide

in the forest.

A tribe without a language

or home ground, riding swinging girders,

passing chains through working memory,

the silver fabric of the Hudson

dazzling the steps

of the master of ceremonies.


In the shade of a hand

out across the steel angles

and laced through these cold cables,

the air is as pure as God

and they are mourning everything

that has been lost.


We are all of us on borrowed time.









Fog and ice