Shortly upon arriving in Wolfshead, Scotland to inherit his parent’s rural shack, a writer is shadowed by big, stinky dogs that look like they were playing fetch with a can of 30-weight. One of the mutts morphs into a fully naked Playboy playmate (Julie Cialini, 1995 centerfold) who wants to have lots of non-explicit sex with him.
All the locals have Scottish accents, except Julie, who sounds like a Kansas cheerleader. You don’t notice it much as she’s naked all the time. That counts.
As the call of the wild gets louder, the writer discovers the whole village is a community of shape-shifters (discount paranormal creatures). Most turn into dirty sheep herding dogs, others into crows. None, it needs to be noted, can turn into a Blockbuster Video™ refund receipt.
The town’s alpha male gets in a pissing match with the writer in one of the lamest bar fight scenes ever filmed. (I thought James Bond the only one who could get punched in the face 60 or 70 times and not so much as have his hair ruffled.)
Wolfhound (2002) has no starring role for blood, suspense, or mouth on throat dissecting. Not even Julie’s 38-29-32 inhibitions can heal the wounds of shame incurred for renting this dud.