There is something about wolves that are so profoundly fascinating, and which has inspired artists for centuries. It’s difficult to find works of literature or mythology that don’t feature lupine characters in some way, with their enigmatic manner of prowling in packs, or their distinctive howls to the night sky making them almost mystical creatures. It’s hardly surprising there have been entire genres of art dedicated to the human transformation into these beasts, with our more timid nature contrasting sharply with the ferocity of the wilderness, especially through the perspective of these animals and their social nature. Wolf is one of the most profoundly moving explorations of this phenomenon, with Nathalie Biancheri writing and directing an achingly beautifully deconstruction of the animal world, done through the lens of a harrowing psychological thriller that tells the story of a young man who has species dysphoria, believing himself to be a wolf, and thus has to seek treatment at a remote institution that specializes in “correcting” people who frequently question their humanity by engaging in animalistic behaviour, each doctor having a different approach to the treatment. It’s a challenging and engaging work of speculative fiction that burrows its way deep into the psychological state of a group of characters, all of whom are constructed with genuine dedication by a director whose intentions were not to make a mockery of the subject matter, but rather to present us with a dark glimpse into a reality that many people face, but which rarely finds its way into common conversations, which has now been granted a considerable step forward as a result of this striking and disturbing film that consistently looks at issues far deeper than the premise would lead the viewer to believe.

The general premise of Wolf is understandably quite bizarre – just looking at the subject matter at a cursory glance, you’d likely think that this is some stilted, awkward dark comedy in the vein of the Greek New Wave, where filmmakers like Yorgos Lanthimos and Argyris Papadimitropoulos have engaged in a kind of off-kilter absurdism that carries deep social connotations. This film is certainly somewhat inspired by these films, but it never fully becomes all that similar, considering the depth of the material and the tone, which shifts consistently. We’re presented with a number of tableaux, some of them vaguely humourous, others outright disturbing – and each one contributes to the general feeling of existential malaise experienced by these characters. Wolf is not a funny film at all, but it does use dark comedy as a powerful narrative tool to show the forthright surrealism of the lives of these characters, who suffer from a condition that outsiders may find bewildering – and to her credit, Biancheri is never afraid to lean into the absurdity when it is necessary, since these more abstract sequences contrast sharply with the terrifying moments that punctuate the film. Wolf is a masterful example of holding the audience’s attention – it is never against portraying the lives of these unfortunate individuals in as frank and bleak terms as possible, since this is ultimately not a film that seeks to entertain, but rather to challenge the viewer emotionally and psychologically. This is not an easy film to watch, and the blend of absurdism and terror does not lead to the most comforting or endearing experience, but rather one that is deeply insightful into the recesses of the human condition. We often find ourselves laughing awkwardly at the content we are witnessing, not realizing how the source of this humour is the same as that which will be used to profoundly unsettle us later on – and the juxtaposition between the two is one of the primary reasons behind the resounding success of this peculiar psychological thriller.

Wolf makes use of a terrific ensemble, with a few very gifted young actors playing patients at this treatment facility, such as Fionn O’Shea and Lola Petticrew, who reunite after their wonderful work in Dating Amber last year, a film that could not be more different than this one. However, it’s the trio of central performances that give this film its impact, with George McKay playing the main character, a young man who is caught between the delusional that he is a wolf, and realizing his own fragile humanity, the existence of which has been the cause of a deep existential crisis drawn from unseen trauma. Lily-Rose Depp plays a fellow patient who becomes a companion to the young man, her own belief in being a wildcat making them kindred spirits, as they are both predators doing whatever they can to escape, even if it means risking their lives. However, the anchor of the film is the tragically underrated Paddy Considine, who has spent decades giving absolutely stunning performances in a range of films, but seems to only be gradually starting to receive the attention he deserves in recent years. His performance as “The Zookeeper” is one of the year’s most terrifying – simultaneously warm and menacing, he is a paternal presence that both comforts and terrorizes his patients, depending on the extent to which his treatment is working. The kind of villainous performance that relies on small details rather than bold strokes of evil, there’s very little doubt that Considine’s work is bound to become one of the most definitive examples of malice depicted on screen, only made more effective by the fact that he is frequently underplaying every scene in a way that confuses the viewer as to whether his intentions are pure, or if he is just a sadist who enjoys manipulating innocent, mentally-unstable young people. It ties the film together and elevates it to a place of profound complexity, adding to the nuanced but terrifying nature of the world as envisioned by the director.

While it is certainly a film with a demented sense of humour and strange approach to impacting the audience, there is method to the madness of Wolf, which mainly comes in how, beneath the absurdity, there is a very important issue being addressed. Ultimately, this film asks a simple question: what does it mean to be human? Throughout the narrative, several characters ask this question, with the boundary between humanity and the animal kingdom being defined differently by each character. There isn’t a solution to the quandary – each one of these individuals views the condition differently, which leads to the imbalance between the patients and their doctors, especially when it becomes clear that some of these people may have professional interests separate from trying to cure what is very clearly a serious mental condition. The film prods and provokes, spending every minute trying to get into the minds of these characters – we’re fortunate enough to see the world through a couple of different perspectives, but it’s the more opaque subject matter, and how Biancheri explores it, that leaves the most lasting impression. Considering how much of this film hinges on the viewer forming a relationship with these characters, following their journey as if we were either voyeurs or fellow patients in this facility, the intimate, character-based details contribute massively to the film and its frequently provocative sense of philosophical curiosity – and it was all constructed from one of the most fundamental questions that has bothered artists and theorists for as long as we have been a thinking species: what differentiates us as humans from the rest of the animal world? The film attempts to answer this question, and whether or not it achieves any satisfying resolution depends on the viewer’s interpretation.

Wolf is not weird for the sake of bewildering viewers, since there is a genuine existential curiosity being demonstrated throughout – it’s been quite a while since such a deeply philosophical film was made, one that builds almost its entire story from the fabric of a simple question, which is spun into this unsettling but beautiful parable that looks at the boundary between humans and animals, questioning whether such a boundary is actually as well-defined as we seem to think. The film never veers towards being exploitative, but it does have its moments of unhinged terror, which is made more disturbing when we realize it achieves this horror through nothing but the use of the human body, coupled with the director’s very distinct tone, which establishes an atmosphere that is genuinely unpleasant, but in a way that is constructive and meaningful, rather than just existing for the purpose of not saying anything of value. There’s something quite genuinely bewildering about this film, a quality that is often quite unexpectedly deep, despite the forthright subject matter that would easily have been mishandled had there been a director at the helm who was less invested in the actual nuances of the existential horror – and through all the polarizing scenarios, Wolf emerges as one of the most genuinely affecting thrillers of recent years, a heartwrenching and deeply peculiar provocation of both form and content, a film that questions the fundamental aspects of humanity, and takes us on a journey into the mind of a young man whose only flaw is that he is not human enough – but it ultimately dares to ask whether his delusions strip him of his inherent value as an individual, or if he is capable of seeing the world in a wildly different way, leading to an understanding that those who conform may not be able to see. Whatever the interpretation held by each individual viewer may be, there’s very little opportunity to deny that what Wolf is saying has value, enough to provoke thought and stir conversation into the most intrinsic qualities of our very existence.