Before limping wounded to theaters after numerous reshoots and postponements, Cursed was being touted as the new collaboration between director Wes Craven and writer Kevin Williamson, the franchise-makers behind the Scream trilogy. At the time, Scream marked a genuine step forward in modern horror films, a knowing postmodern satire that still delivered the scares. But two sequels and many imitators later, the subgenre they practically invented had gone stale. For Craven and Williamson to team up again for a werewolf picture should have called for an entirely fresh approach. Instead it's like something out of Hanna-Barbera school, with two lazy animators reusing the same cels. Replace a psychopath in a Halloween mask with a few cheaply rendered beasts and they're exactly the same movie: Same celebrity death cameo, same glib pop cultural references, same whodunit ending that necessitates half a dozen superfluous characters.
Had Craven and Williamson braved a more straight-ahead genre picture, they might have been onto something. Many vampire or werewolf movies have a moment when a newly bitten human, conscious of his or her impending transformation, warns somebody to get away from them. Here, the "cursed" beings of the title bear the sign of the beast and many of its instincts—heightened senses, unusual strength, sex appeal, and an appetite for flesh and blood—but they have the ability to keep their powers in check if they so choose. When a wolf ambushes Christina Ricci and her younger brother Jesse Eisenberg near the scene of a roadside accident, their capabilities quickly alter in tune with the lunar cycle, but they have to contend with the original werewolf, who wants to finish the job. As usual, Williamson provides a number of candidates for the mystery baddie, most obviously Ricci's shifty boyfriend Joshua Jackson, who just happens to own a mirror-filled nightclub that would be perfect for a stylish climactic showdown.
As with the first act of Wolf or most of the Canadian cult favorite Ginger Snaps, Cursed sputters to life whenever the new wolves are discovering their powers, like Ricci picking up the sweet aroma of a nosebleed or Eisenberg battling his dog over a piece of raw steak. Eisenberg, in particular, excels during the few scenes that show him grappling with the new changes in his body, tapping into all the vulnerability and charm that were so abundant in Roger Dodger. Though Craven shows flashes of the old magic, Cursed eventually settles into rote, uninspired horror fare, hog-tied to the Williamson formula all the way to arbitrary finish. The film may be one of the best ever not screened in advance for critics, but that still doesn't put it in the finest company.