I’m probably not the best person to give an opinion on any horror TV movie released in the seventies. My blind love for them has no real explanation. It’s just always been there. A prime example of that is this obviously boring Hawaiian-shot werewolf flick. I know it’s boring... believe me I know… but I still enjoy the hell out of it. Robert Foxworth (who’s been a favorite of mine since he tangled with a pissed-off mutant bear in 1979’s The Prophecy) is suffering from strange nightmares and a growing anxiety. Because he’s a hard working businessman, his doctor prescribes a vacation. The stressed-out Jason Palmer flies to Hawaii to get in some relaxation and maybe even some love. Things do not go as planned. Turns out his grandpappy was a missionary in the area and many years ago he destroyed a sacred alter. A curse was placed on the rude Christian and the bloodline now has an issue with lycanthropy. Once that full moon hits, Mr. Palmer transforms into an ape-looking wolfman and starts gnawing on the hot stewardesses vacationing at the same resort. This puts his new businesswoman lover in harms way and has the head of resort security (a sleeve-hating horndog named Rick) doing some investigating into what’s massacring the hotel guests. There’s zero blood, very little werewolf action and incredibly dim lighting but Gods help me the lounge singing breaks, hideous fashion and seventies vibes keep me smiling.
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