In the feverish legacy of werewolf cinema, one sequel dares to mock the monster myth while embracing absurdity—welcome to the wild, woolly world of The Howling VII: New Moon Rising.
Buried deep within the sprawling, schlock-filled franchise of Joe Dante’s seminal 1981 lycanthrope shocker The Howling, the seventh instalment arrives like a full moon on a budget: chaotic, campy, and curiously self-aware. Released straight to video in 1995, The Howling VII: New Moon Rising transplants the werewolf woes to a sleepy American town gripped by media hysteria, blending satire with splatter in a manner that defies expectation. This breakdown peels back the fur to reveal a film that punches above its weight in critique, even as it revels in its own B-movie bonkers.
- A plot that skewers tabloid frenzy and religious fanaticism through a werewolf conspiracy in small-town America.
- Low-budget ingenuity in effects and humour that elevates it beyond typical direct-to-video fare.
- Its peculiar place in the Howling series, bridging absurdity with unexpected social commentary.
Silverwood’s Savage Spotlight
The sleepy town of Silverwood, California, becomes ground zero for supernatural suspicion in The Howling VII: New Moon Rising. Journalist Ted Smith, portrayed by John Ramsden, arrives to cover a string of brutal murders pinned on local drifter Vincent, played by André Jacobs. What begins as routine reporting spirals into a maelstrom when Ted uncovers evidence suggesting Vincent might be a werewolf. Complicating matters is the arrival of a travelling media circus led by the bombastic preacher Revered Will Baines, brought to snarling life by Eric Flemming, who whips the populace into a frenzy with his anti-lycanthrope sermons. Baines sees the killings as demonic proof, rallying the townsfolk with fire-and-brimstone rhetoric that echoes real-world moral panics.
As bodies pile up—gory dismemberments captured with gleeful gusto—Ted teams with local waitress Ellie, enacted by Claudia Udy, whose own secrets hint at deeper connections to the beastly bloodshed. The narrative weaves through late-night stakeouts, clandestine meetings in foggy forests, and a climactic showdown at an abandoned theatre where the full moon reveals transformations that are equal parts hilarious and horrific. Director Clive Turner stages these set pieces with a kinetic energy belying the film’s shoestring origins, shot primarily on location in South Africa to cut costs, which lends an incongruous exoticism to the ostensibly American setting.
Key to the film’s drive is its refusal to take the werewolf trope straight. Vincent’s alleged lycanthropy is questioned through forensic evidence and eyewitness accounts that blur fact and fabrication, mirroring how sensationalism distorts truth. The script, penned by Clive Turner and Les Boehm, peppers the proceedings with wry dialogue: Baines thunders about ‘children of the night’ while hawking wolfbane trinkets, a satirical jab at televangelist excess. This layered storytelling demands viewers parse the propaganda from the primal, making the film more thinker than mere thriller.
Media Moonhowl: Satirising the Spectacle
At its furry heart, New Moon Rising dissects the machinery of modern media, portraying Silverwood as a petri dish for manufactured outrage. Ted’s investigation collides with Baines’ carnival of zealotry, where news crews amplify whispers into roars. A pivotal scene unfolds in the town hall, where Baines orchestrates a mock trial for Vincent, broadcast live to frenzied crowds. The cinematography, courtesy of Peter Krause, employs tight close-ups on sweating faces and wide shots of baying mobs, evoking the hysteria of historical witch hunts transposed to camcorder era.
Class tensions simmer beneath the fur: Silverwood’s blue-collar residents clash with intrusive outsiders, their grievances exploited by Baines’ demagoguery. Ellie represents the working-class anchor, her flirtations with Ted underscoring romantic undercurrents amid the chaos. Performances shine here; Ramsden’s everyman reporter conveys dogged determination, while Udy infuses Ellie with a steely vulnerability that hints at repressed rage. Flemming’s Baines is a tour de force of ham, his spittle-flecked rants channeling the bombast of real-life firebrands.
Religious undertones add bite, with Baines’ flock brandishing crucifixes against imagined hellhounds. The film questions faith’s weaponisation, as werewolf legends clash with biblical literalism. A midnight forest confrontation, lit by silvery practical effects moonlight, symbolises this schism: claws versus crosses in a ballet of belief and beast. Turner’s direction favours atmosphere over excess gore, using shadows and suggestion to heighten dread, a nod to Hammer Horror’s heyday.
Beast Within: Transformations and Tropes
Werewolf mechanics receive a makeover in this entry, eschewing graphic metamorphoses for psychological suspense. Transformations are teased through behavioural ticks—Vincent’s growling whispers, elongated shadows—and confirmed in bursts of stop-motion and prosthetics that prioritise personality over physiology. The effects team, led by South African artisans, crafts convincing creature suits with matted fur and glowing eyes, practical marvels achieved on a fraction of Hollywood budgets. A standout sequence sees Vincent’s change mid-chase, limbs contorting in jerky, visceral agony that recalls early An American Werewolf in London but with punkish flair.
Symbolically, the lycanthropy embodies suppressed urges: Ted grapples with professional ethics as his scoop tempts ethical corners, paralleling Vincent’s inner monster. Gender dynamics flicker too; Ellie’s arc from bystander to battler subverts damsel tropes, her final stand a howl of empowerment. The film’s score, a throbbing synth affair by Alistair Harrison, underscores these shifts, pulsating like a racing pulse under full lunar pull.
Production hurdles shaped its scrappy soul. Financed as a quickie sequel by overseas producers, filming in Cape Town’s outskirts masquerading as California involved guerrilla shoots amid political upheaval post-apartheid. Turner, juggling directorial and writing duties, improvised around actor availability, turning constraints into creative fuel. Censorship dodged by toning down gore for international markets, yet the film’s cheeky violence—arterial sprays and bone-crunching bites—retains rebellious edge.
Fangs in the Franchise: Legacy and Laughter
Within the Howling canon, New Moon Rising stands as outlier outlier, the series having devolved from Dante’s witty original into parody playground by the mid-90s. Predecessors like Howling II‘s Sybil Danning antics and Howling III‘s marsupial mutants paved absurdity’s path, but VII refines it with sharper satire. No continuity binds it tightly; recurring motifs like colony communes nod loosely, prioritising standalone snarls.
Influence ripples subtly: its media critique prefigures found-footage frenzies and true-crime podcasts, while campy kills inspire modern meta-horrors like Tucker and Dale vs. Evil. Cult status blooms online, fans dissecting Easter eggs—silver bullets etched with tabloid headlines—and debating Vincent’s veracity. Turner never helmed another Howling, but this capstone cements the saga’s shift from scares to smirks.
Critically, it languished overlooked, dismissed as filler amid 90s slasher glut. Yet revisited, its prescience gleams: in an age of viral witch-hunts, Silverwood’s saga warns of frenzy’s fangs. Performances elevate pulp; Jacobs’ brooding Vincent mixes menace with pathos, a feral foil to Flemming’s frothing foe.
Claws Out: Special Effects Under Scrutiny
Effects anchor the film’s frights, blending old-school ingenuity with era-appropriate ambition. Prosthetic transformations utilise foam latex appliances moulded for elastic extensions, jaws unhinging via radio-controlled servos for authentic snaps. Blood squibs burst realistically, sourced from practical hydraulics rather than digital cheats, grounding gore in tactile terror.
Stop-motion inserts for rapid limb growth, animated by local talent, add eerie fluidity, echoing Ray Harryhausen’s mythic menagerie. Moonlit composites layer matte paintings of Silverwood’s skyline, cost-effective vistas enhancing scope. Sound design amplifies: guttural howls layered from wolf samples and human growls create immersive menace, while crunches evoke fresh kills.
Limitations breed charm; budget beast suits fray delightfully, fur clumping in sweat-soaked chases. Compared to Rick Baker’s Oscar-winning work on the original, these are humble homages, proving heart trumps wallet in horror’s howl.
Director in the Spotlight
Clive Turner, the British filmmaker behind The Howling VII: New Moon Rising, emerged from television trenches to helm this horror hybrid. Born in 1950s England, Turner honed his craft directing episodic dramas for the BBC, including gritty crime serials like Bergerac (1981-1991), where he mastered tense pacing and location shoots. Influences span Hitchcock’s suspense and Hammer’s gothic grandeur, blended with a punkish irreverence from 70s exploitation.
Transitioning to features in the 90s amid UK industry’s slump, Turner relocated to South Africa for tax incentives, debuting with Project Shadowchaser (1992), a sci-fi actioner starring Martin Kove that mixed Die Hard tropes with mutant mayhem. New Moon Rising followed in 1995, his werewolf whimsy scripted solo after Les Boehm’s polish, showcasing satirical bite honed from docudramas.
Post-Howling, Turner directed Cyborg Cop III (1994, released later), a robo-revenge romp with Zach Galligan, and Shadowchaser: The Gates of Time (1996), escalating android anarchy. A Case of Murder (1997) pivoted to thriller territory with Dee Wallace-Stone. Later works include Merlin: The Return (2000), a low-rent Arthurian adventure featuring Patrick Bergin as Mordred.
Turner’s oeuvre spans 20+ credits, favouring direct-to-video vigour: Snitch (1996) with Robert Davi, Operation Delta Force series (1997-2000), and Shark Attack (1999), kickstarting Jaws rip-offs. He penned many, like Dangerous Ground (1997) starring Ice Cube. Retirement loomed post-2000s TV gigs, but his legacy endures in cult corners, praised for economical thrills.
Away from screens, Turner championed practical effects, mentoring SA VFX crews during transition eras. Interviews reveal disdain for CGI excess, preferring ‘rubber reality’. His Howling remains pinnacle, a full-moon fusion of fright and fun.
Actor in the Spotlight
Claudia Udy, captivating as Ellie in The Howling VII: New Moon Rising, carved a niche in 80s-90s horror with poised intensity. Born Claudia Jean Udy in 1958 Albuquerque, New Mexico, she chased acting dreams post-high school, training at London’s Corona Stage Academy amid punk rock’s roar. Early breaks included TV’s General Hospital (1983) as Tina Lord, blending soap seduction with edge.
Feature leap came via Tenue de soirée (1986) with Gérard Depardieu, but horror beckoned with Howling IV: The Original Nightmare (1988), her Ellie precursor unleashing feral fury. New Moon Rising reunited her with the franchise, her waitress wielding wit and weaponry against werewolves.
Udy’s filmography brims: 976-EVIL (1988) as cultist Lucy, Out of Sight, Out of Mind (1990) opposite Sean Young, Body Chemistry 3: Point of Seduction (1994) in erotic thriller territory. Chain of Desire (1992) featured Linda Fiorentino, showcasing dramatic range. Later: Virtual Desire (1995), The Force (1996) with Jason Gedrick.
Over 40 roles, Udy excelled in B-horrors: Head Games (1993), The Last Job (1993), TV arcs in Freddy’s Nightmares (1988). Awards eluded, but fan acclaim endures for scream queen stamina. Post-2000s, she pivoted to producing, helming The Last Producer (2000) vibes, and voice work.
Personal life private, Udy credits horror for empowerment, embodying resilient heroines. Her Howling duality—vulnerable yet vicious—mirrors career tenacity.
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