By JASON COMERFORD

As befitting its subject matter, Wolf had its origins in a strange, feverish dream. Novelist Jim Harrison, who lived in a remote area of Michigan with a visible wolf population, told Peter Biskind for a 1994 Premiere article that he dreamt that one “had been hit by a car. When I picked it up, it went into my mouth and into my body, which is uncomfortable, ‘cause at the time I was on yet another diet, and now I’m full of this bitch, ya know? One night, I thought someone was coming into the yard, so I hopped out of bed, tore off the doors to get at whoever was out there, and my face was covered with hair—ya know, the usual. It meant the dog wouldn’t have anything to do with me for about a day and a half. I don’t care for that kind of thing. I’m a very ordinary person.”
 
At the suggestion of producer Douglas Wick, Harrison turned his “lycanthropic episode” into a screenplay, with Harrison’s friend Jack Nicholson attached for the lead role. Nicholson brought in Mike Nichols to direct, and the subsequent path to production and release was turbulent. The urbanite Nichols seemed a risky match for the material; nonetheless, he assembled a top-shelf cast including Nicholson, Michelle Pfeiffer, Christopher Plummer, James Spader, and Kate Nelligan, and a formidable production crew including costumer designer Ann Roth, makeup designer Rick Baker, cinematographer Giuseppe Rotunno, and composer John Williams.

Nichols was soon at a stylistic impasse with Harrison’s pugnacious hypermasculinity, and commissioned rewrites from Wesley Strick and, later, Elaine May. Williams, citing scheduling conflicts, backed out of the project and was replaced by Ennio Morricone, who had scored In the Line of Fire for Columbia Pictures the year before. Originally scheduled for release in April 1994, the $25 million project saw its budget double (or more) when the decision was made to reshoot its entire third act, delaying its release until June. Released to mixed reviews, the film eventually turned a profit thanks to overseas grosses, but was viewed largely as a disappointment.

Indeed, Wolf is an uneven mixture of corporate satire, May-December romance, and muted werewolf thriller, but it’s buoyed by some great dry comedy and sheer star power. And it’s aided immeasurably by Ennio Morricone’s score, which gives the whole affair the class sheen it requires. Employing a full battery of his trademark orchestral effects, as well as a mournfully beautiful love theme for saxophone, Morricone reaches a full head of steam with his cue for Nicholson’s first nighttime prowl, a nine-minute centerpiece entitled “The Dream and the Deer.” Beginning first in a tentatively romantic mode as Nicholson and Pfeiffer discuss the unusual symptoms of his gradual transformation, Morricone skillfully incorporates his trademark chromatic writing for strings, suggesting Will’s growing menace, punctuating the uneasy tone with a running figure for harpsichord.
 
As Will awakens, transformed, and roams out into the wild to pursue an unfortunate deer, Morricone employs swirling, dreamy lines for the strings, and curling figures for the winds, with percussion pulsing underneath. Morricone carries the entire dialogue-free sequence with operatic flair, skillfully suggesting that it’s all just a horrific dream while not holding back on the supernatural menace. Wolf is generally not noted on lists of great horror scores, or even great Morricone scores, but it’s an intelligent, confident effort filled with remarkable dexterity, and it’s entirely worthy of rediscovery. The 1994 Sony Classical release is out of print but relatively affordable on the secondary market, and includes several cues not used in the final film.