Whatever happened to our perception of wolves? Remember the 80s? Sure, we had our American Werewolf in London moments. We also had Farley Mowat teaching us the creatures were just misunderstood in Never Cry Wolf. And Michael J. Fox enlightened with the notion that all werewolves really wanted to do was play a little hoops and surf on top of vans. The decade even ended with a Best Picture about a guy whose defining characteristic was dancing with a wolf. Now? The best treatment wolves get is hunky pathetic also-rans in the Twilight series. Sure, Vampires are our friends, despite their all-blood diet, but wolves? Those guys are jerks. Just ask Underworld or Season of the Witch.
Which brings us to The Grey, a film in which wolves are treated like the velociraptors of Jurassic Park: organized, vengeful, aggressive, powerful, vicious, intelligent, and unrelenting killers. Humans have come into their territory; time for a little anti-homo erectus campaign. Dogs?! Those Uncle Toms are glorified slaves; the only good human is a dead human.
This isn’t what I understand of wolves, but hey, it’s not my movie. Here’s what I do understand: when your plane goes down in a flaming ball of fire and you’re miles and miles from nowhere – stay with the plane. Even in frozen tundra, plane crashes are big deals. Rescue crews come. Black boxes are located. You leave the reservation for what reason exactly?
In order to intensify the drama, The Grey has its players make this and one other absurdly poor decision all while being chased by angry wolves. Survival isn’t its own reward unless somebody is being eaten. The players are led by Ottway (Liam Neeson), a wolf hunter for pipeline drillers. Are wolf attacks a big deal in Alaska? So big there are professionals needed to protect the workers? Hmmm, learn something new every day. This brings up the big problem with The Grey: Liam introduces his playmates as a sausage loaded picnic basket of jerks. And, for the most part, they are. When they go down in a plane crash, we don’t exactly feel for them. And the only use of backstory in The Grey is not for sympathetic understanding, but rather to announce who is being eaten next. Otherwise, I could no more tell apart The Greys than the Norwegians in The Thing.
It’s easier to get into the thrill when you care who dies next.
Let me state the following for the record: if I am down to, say, my last twenty breaths before I expire and the only one to usher me from this mortal coil to my personal Valhalla is a grizzly, unshaven, snow covered Liam Neeson, then let me die alone. Seriously. Thanks.
Rated R, 117 Minutes
D: Joe Carnahan
W: Joe Carnahan & Ian Mackenzie Jeffers
Genre: Grizzled survival
Type of person most likely to enjoy this film: Navy seals
Type of person least likely to enjoy this film: “Shut the door, it’s cold out.”
