Quite frankly, it's hard to fathom why exactly anyone would have wanted to make this slick, glossy, but utterly redundant werewolf movie. Okay, maybe Nicholson sympathised with his Will Randall, a middle-aged New York book editor anxious about his job and his marriage, who finds his powers and senses not only restored but greatly sharpened when he's bitten by a wolf he ran into with his car. And maybe Spader, as Randall's smarmy, back-stabbing colleague Swinton, reckoned here was a juicy, villainous part to sink his teeth into. But for Pfeiffer - as Randall's love interest Laura - there's little of substance, while Nichols makes it clear that directing a horror movie was the last thing on his mind. Even make-up wiz Rick Baker is stymied by the air of restraint. Overall, this is needlessly polished nonsense: not awful; just toothless, gutless and bloodless.