Review: The Last Werewolf
Stop what you’re doing and look up ennui in Urbandictionary. Then read this book.
Humans are endlessly fascinated by new things: new books, new movies, new bands. We bend over backward to try out new restaurants; we max out our credit cards to have the latest and greatest tchotchke. So what happens, then, when new things are no longer satisfying? Samuel Johnson famously once said that when a man is tired of London he is tired of life. But what if a man is tired of life itself? And what if said man is actually a werewolf?
Glen Duncan’s The Last Werewolf hooked me from its very premise: Jake Marlowe discovers he is the last werewolf on earth and his response is more or less along the lines of “Ah, fuck it.” After two hundred years on planet Earth, Jake is ready to pack it in and call it quits. The Hunt has been chasing Jake for almost as long as he’s been alive, and Jake is about ready to let them put a bullet in his brain. Jake just doesn’t care anymore; after being a werewolf for almost two centuries he’s fucked enough, drank enough, ate enough, and killed enough that mere survival no longer holds any interest for him. The Hunt and their umbrella organization WOCOP (World Orginisation for the Control of Occult Phenomena) are charged with controlling the world’s supernatural population. Lead by their werewolf hunter wunderkind Grainer, they’ve managed to slaughter every last werewolf on earth, save for Jake. As the novel opens, Jake finds out that not only did the Hunt just kill the second-to-last werewolf, but the Hunt is gunning to take Jake out during the next full moon; surprisingly, Jake is more than okay with that.
I can’t spoil the ending for this book because I’m only a quarter of the way through this slim volume, but I felt compelled to write a review and draw attention to this amazing novel. The Last Werewolf was one of those happy accidents: something I picked off the shelf at random at a friend’s house and whose premise and writing style caught me immediately. I was not aware of the works of Glen Duncan before I’d began, although he is the author of nine other novels, one of which (I, Lucifer) is currently being developed into a novel. After about the third chapter I starting wishing for a movie version of The Last Werewolf, envisioning a moody juicy film noir London setting, where one of the Game of Thrones kids took on the role of Jake and chewed his way through the source material. For whatever reason, werewolf stories have not been as well received in mainstream pop culture. While vampire movies and television series are ubiquitous, werewolves get relegated to the side, supernatural sidekicks to their more stylish and popular vampire cousins. (As seen in everything from Twilight to the werewolves in the Anita Blake: Vampire Hunter series). Duncan makes werewolves sexy; to Duncan werewolves are where it’s at: smart, sophisticated and hypersexualized all at once. Duncan’s writing style is flowery, but in an awe-inspiring way rather than a distracting way. He’s the kind of author who can turn fairy tale into an adverb and not have me roll my eyes. Take that, Stephanie Meyer.
Tl;drs
Blank is a blanker version of blank: The Last Werewolf is a hip supernatural thriller that isn’t about vampires (for once).
Recommended if you like: I, Vampire, The Vampire Lestat, or any badass first-person supernatural novel.
Better than I expected: Sexy werewolves! Maybe I’d gotten jaded by Stephanie Meyer and the Team Jacob bullshit, but I’m happy someone has done werewolves justice.
Worse than I hoped: Having not yet finished the story, I’m really hoping the ending doesn’t suck, but I’m encouraged by Duncan’s pacing and wordplay enough to be optimistic.
The Last Werewolf would work better as a(n): Seriously, Focus or Lions Gate needs to pick up the film rights and lock down Kit Harington for the title role like right fucking now.
Verdict: The Last Werewolf is a literate, stylish romp through the mind of a suicidal werewolf.
