Vampires, zombies and cat people may have their feminine side, but werewolves are almost always male. So when 16-year-old late-developer Ginger Fitzgerald starts experiencing heavy shit a couple of days after a hairy encounter with a savage dog, she automatically assumes it's related to menstruation. But her kid sister Brigitte realises the true nature of Ginger's lunar cycle, aghast as her former best friend in the whole world starts running wild with boys, staying out all night and leaving a trail of blood behind her. The film uncovers virgin territory in a genre we all thought had been flogged to death. It begins by establishing a bummed-out mood of suburban teen disaffection: Bailey Downs is a torpidly nondescript north American burg, hardly flattered by Fawcett's forceful low budget handiwork. Just as the Fitzgerald sisters get their kicks by photographing each other in staged suicide scenes, the movie gives off an exploitation movie buzz belied by its obvious intelligence. From Brigitte's 15-year-old perspective, lycanthropy is just a more extreme example of the gross hormonal hula hoops adolescence has in store; for Ginger, it's confusing - she feels she's grown a tail between her legs - but also liberating: 'I've got this ache, and I thought it was for sex, but it's to tear everything to fucking pieces.' With a trio of strong female performances (Isabelle is Ginger, Perkins her sister, Rogers her mom) and enough suspense to camouflage some dodgy special effects, this isn't just a good horror movie, it's a good movie. Period.