An American Werewolf in Paris (1997)

An American Werewolf in Paris is the kind of midnight movie that lunges at you with a grin: a slick, tourist-nightmare spin on lycanthropy that marries Parisian romance and club-scene sleaze to big, messy creature thrills. Anthony Waller keeps the pace sprinting, letting the jokes land without defanging the horror, and when the film goes for blood it doesn’t do it politely—there’s an enjoyably nasty physicality to the mayhem and the transformation work. Julie Delpy gives the movie an unexpectedly human center, playing the allure and sadness beneath the genre chaos so you’re not just watching carnage, you’re watching temptation. It’s not for viewers who want subtle scares or a pristine classic, but if you’re in the mood for energetic, R-rated horror-comedy with a pulpy, neon-lit bite, this one earns its howl.

An American Werewolf in Paris wants to be a slick, party-fueled horror-comedy with a modern twist on werewolf lore and a postcard version of Paris as the playground. The problem is the tone wobbles: the jokes often land with sitcom-level awkwardness, the scares play more goofy than tense, and the heavy CGI makes the creature work feel dated and weightless when it should be the main event. If you’re hoping for the wit, atmosphere, or craft of the original An American Werewolf in London, this will likely feel like a noisy, horny late-90s remix that mistakes chaos for fun. Still, if you can tolerate the R-rated sleaze, want fast pacing, and enjoy campy monster mayhem without expecting sophistication, it can work as a disposable midnight watch.