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Let me preface this by saying: I am a sucker for werewolves. Not the snarly CGI ones with zero brain cells and a sad backstory about full moons and missed prom dates. No, I mean the ancient, tragic, dignified type—the kind that lopes between metaphor and myth. The kind that Loups-Garoux delivers like a gothic blood-slicked valentine straight to my soft, gooey horror-loving heart.
The story’s as streamlined as a silver bullet: Ileana de Santos (tragic noblewoman, werewolf, gothic icon) is on the run from Pieter Stubbe, a literal ancient werewolf boogeyman voiced like someone gargling velvet and old grave dirt. She’s got a kid. There’s a train. The Doctor and Turlough accidentally crash the furry party somewhere in future-Brazil where the rainforest is a memory and everyone is acting like Snowpiercer meets The Jungle Book but sexy.
And look—Peter Davison is finally given something meaty. This isn’t cricket tea and space bureaucracy. This is feral Davison, desperate Davison, staring down millennia-old monsters and throwing himself into myth with that quiet steel that makes you remember why he was ever cast after Tom ‘Eyebrows of God’ Baker.
The werewolves in this aren’t monsters. They’re memory. They’re bloodlines. They’re full of longing and dignity and scent metaphors. They describe the Doctor’s smell like he’s a doorway to a place they’ve never been, and if that line doesn’t stir something poetic and primal in you, congratulations—you might be a Cyberman.
Rosa is here too, our human link to a forgotten tribe and a fate-tied prophecy, and she’s easily one of the best written one-shot characters Big Finish has ever done. She has an edge, a softness, and purpose in every line. Even Turlough gets some actual material and not just snarky ginger padding. Miracle.
Sure, there’s a scene where a literal werewolf sprints alongside a train like he’s auditioning for Fast & Furry-ous. But honestly? I clapped. That’s what we’re here for. Give me the madness, as long as it howls pretty.
My only real nitpick—if I have to scrape for one—is that the 2050 Brazil setting is barely touched. The world’s changed, but the story doesn’t really use that. It’s more Agatha Christie on claws than anything sci-fi. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe myth doesn’t need tech—it needs intimacy. Sweat. Teeth. Breath.
Final Thoughts:
Loups-Garoux isn’t just a werewolf story. It’s a romance. It’s a lament. It’s an old song played on cracked bones and moonlight. And maybe it’s not reinventing the wheel, but it polishes it so damn well I want to ride that thing straight into a doomed love story.
5 out of 5 nostalgic wet dog smells