A wordy title for a wordy movie. New York City DIY wonder and grindhouse mainstay Andy Milligan went to England to shoot an 1800s period werewolf story that gets more into the dysfunctional family of the furry fiend than it does into flesh-eating action. That’s better for the low-budget production and a better vehicle for Milligan’s signature misanthropy seasoned with a dash of subtext about the secrecy and scandal of a gay man’s life. Still, it’s a mess of a movie that leans most of its weight on long conversations shot by a director who merely points and shoots and plows through his script, saving money while his scenes barely live. The shoehorned moments involving rats (requested by the producers, looking to spice up this bomb’s marquee value following the success of Willard) don’t help much. For Milligan completists only.