If the hair on my knuckles spiked, the muscles in my back contorted, and I let out a bloodcurdling howl during The Wolfman, it was probably just a yawn. Maybe my failure of intuition—and unwarranted heeding of publicity—had left me crabby. But shouldn’t the remake of a 1941 monster-movie classic indulge in just a little hearty, old-timey hokum? Anthony Hopkins, prancing around in a velvety bathrobe, makes for a glazed and grizzled ham, but the bread that makes the sandwich (Benicio del Toro and Emily Blunt) is disappointingly white. An apter epicurean metaphor involves fast food. If I’m vacationing in the English moors, circa Oscar Wilde, I won’t want to spend tea time at McDonalds. Heart-attack editing has become the McDonalds of horror films; it’s quick, ubiquitous, easy, and icky. The filmmakers here have gormandized it, and left us with some dry wolf droppings that tarnish the belle époque trim.

The Wolfman isn’t woefully incompetent or wake-up-drooling awful. I felt a tad impatient, yet never quite bored; Joe Johnston directs at a silver bullet’s pace. The lack of imagination, however, drowsed rather than roused me. This movie makes Daybreakers seem as innovative as Citizen Kane. I wasn’t expecting Young Frankenstein—or even Shaun of the Dead. But is Francis Ford Coppola’s Dracula too much to ask for?