One of the most pleasant surprises on platforms during the worst days of the pandemic and home confinement was the premiere of the very unique Thunder Road, debut in the feature film of Jim Cummings, which adapted his own short also starring himself: a black comedy about depression, disconcerting in its tone and style, which, starting from common places in the world, indie American ended up reaching a fusion between comedy and tragedy of exquisite affection for his characters.
With The wolf of Snow Hollow, who arrives at Movistar these days, Cummings repeats the role with a character in principle very similar: a loser burdened by marital and family conflicts, also a policeman – here he is the assistant to the sheriff, precisely his father – and that, as in Thunder Road, it seems that he will burst into tears almost every take. Screaming, ex-alcoholic and on the verge of a constant nervous breakdown, Cummings’ role articulates an unusual film that, on its surface, due to the environment, the gear of thriller and the nuance of black comedy, could be related to the Fargo of the Coen brothers, but unfolding from an even more cantankerous and effervescent spirit.
An unprejudiced and unpretentious air, even in its concise footage, but of enviable mockery, which, being centered on a mystery where the crimes seem to have been perpetrated by a werewolf, inevitably leads us to certain great works of the eighties with similar patina of lycanthropy hooliganism, mainly An American werewolf in London Y Howls And it is right there where you have to fit The wolf of Snow Hollow, in that decade where it was difficult to draw the fine line that sometimes separates supine stupidity, perfect bullshit and historical genius. In fact, the production hallmark of Orion Pictures, a company resurrected in 2013 after its economic meltdown in the 1990s, marks Cummings’ hilarious delusion from start to finish.