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I saw this little magnum opus for the first time very recently, on one of those dollar DVD's that seem to be everywhere nowadays, and was so moved by it that I cannot contain myself. For those who have never seen this mesmerizingly miserable Mexican import, and wish to view it without being prejudiced by anyone else's jaundiced commentary, there are undoubtedly substantial spoilers in what follows. So if you are one of those reckless individuals, stop reading at once and go and watch it for yourself. If you get drunk enough in advance, you might be fortunate enough to pass out before it's over.
Begin with the premise that a man may become a werewolf after being bitten by a yeti. No one in the film ventures an explanation as to how this sort of cross-species implantation could occur, and the rest of the movie is even more hopelessly nonsensical. But pour yourself another glass of wine (or whatever you're drinking), and let us proceed.
Paul Naschy (our werewolf) has the look of a man fighting a toothache, in a town where the only dentist has traded his supply of Novocaine for a case of cheap whiskey, and has been drunk ever since. (Ain't he the lucky one?) Naschy's facial expression never varies, whether in or out of makeup, and apparently no one gave him any coaching on how to act like a werewolf. Occasionally he tries to imitate the Lon Chaney Jr. crouch, but most of the time he simply strolls around in his black mafia shirt, like just another cool dude with a tad too much facial hair. To be fair, the makeup is actually better than the actor inside of it, but the continuity is infinitely worse. Naschy's werewolf is the only one I can think of that changes shirts twice in the middle of a prowl. He goes from black shirt to red shirt, then back to black, then back to red, then back to black, all in a single, frenzied night. Interestingly enough, he always does the Chaney crouch while wearing the red shirt, and the cool dude walk while wearing the black shirt. And it's only while he is wearing the red shirt that we see much of the fury alluded to in the title. Presumably there's something about that red shirt that just brings out the animal in him.
So anyway, after being bitten by the cross-pollinating yeti, the poor schmuck returns home from Tibet to learn that his wife has been sleeping with one of his students. The two illicit lovers try to murder him by adjusting the brakes on his car. He survives the wreck, and makes it home just in time for a full moon. Then, after chewing up his wife and her lover, he wanders off again, and somehow manages to get himself electrocuted. But is that enough? Can they let this tormented wretch rest in peace? Not a chance. He is resurrected by a supposed female scientist with a hardcore S/M fetish, otherwise known as "The Doctor" (and definitely not a new incarnation of Doctor Who). She digs him up and whisks him away to her kinky kastle, takes him down to the dungeon, chains him to the wall, and gives him a damn good flogging. Presumably such a string of indignities ought to be enough to put a little fury into any wolfman.
After his two-shirted rampage, our wolfman spends most of the rest of the film wandering around the castle, trying to find a way out. (And who can blame him?) In the course of his wanderings, he encounters a bewilderingly incoherent assortment of clichés, including a man dressed in medieval armor, a curiously inept Phantom of the Opera impersonator (supposedly The Doctor's father), and a hard-partying cadre of bondage slaves.
So what's it all about, one may reasonably ask? One gets the vague impression that it has something to do with mind control, and involves something The Doctor calls "chemotrodes." (Best guess. I really have no idea how it's spelled, if there even is such a thing.) Mercifully, the experiment ends in failure, and most importantly, it ends...before one has time to gnaw one's own leg off.
Of course, one doesn't really expect any sense from a film like this, but at least it ought to be good for laughs. This one isn't. Forget it, buddy. There is a creeping sort of anarchy about this film, from its patched-together, tequila-drenched ambiance to its atrocious cinematography and agonizing musical score, that defies even the most sozzled attempts to get any MST3K type laughs out of it. If it's not even good for that, what the hell is it good for? If Montezuma's revenge could have somehow been digitally remastered and put on a DVD, it would have looked exactly like this movie.


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