Year of the Wolf

Every once in awhile, when the moon is full, there’s an eerie howling outside my bedroom window, and a chill goes through me.

It’s out there again, I say to myself . . . the creature . . . the animal on two feet . . . the beast that prowls the night. . . .

I can see it now outlined in the pale moonlight . . . wearing a dark suit and a red tie . . . a big cigar in its mouth . . . closer it comes . . . and closer . . . and OH MY GOD IT’S SAM ARKOFF HUSTLING A NEW MOVIE! Screeeaammm . . .

Hi.

I knew it was him. Sam, you see, is the guy who made “I Was a Teenage Werewolf” 35 years ago, before teens really became werewolves, and now he’s doing a sequel.

By that, I do not mean to imply he is doing a movie about a retired werewolf with a recreational vehicle, only that he is doing an updated version about a teenwolf.

Toward that end, he has interviewed about 300 young people in New York and L.A. to play the part of the person who becomes half human and half animal.

They showed up with hair glued to their faces in order to convince him that they were the ones to play the boy-beast, or possibly the girl-beast. Some howled, some growled, all dreamed.

“The movie’s about vulnerable kids,” Sam explained the other day.

He’s a cross between George Burns and the Maytag Man, a puckish movie mogul at momentary ease.

“Our werewolf 35 years ago was a classic American misfit who couldn’t get along with anyone,” Sam said. “But instead of getting into trouble, he became a werewolf. Today, he adds with almost grandfatherly pride, “they are the parents of werewolves.”

You remember “Teenage Werewolf.” Michael Landon played a kind of a sweet James Dean who fell under the evil influence of a mad scientist. The scientist, using chemistry and hypnosis, took Landon back to his primeval animal state in order to learn how to to do the same with all humanity in order to make us better.

Not a bad idea, but it goes wrong and Landon becomes a werewolf. Well, mistakes happen.

“Fifty million people saw the movie,” Sam said the other day in his Burbank office. He blew cigar smoke across the room and added, “Those who say they didn’t see it are lying through their . . . teeth.”

In the room with us was a prospective werewolf, Kristina Lolatte, a bodacious babe with dyed blonde hair, blue eyes and bright red lipstick.

I was there because I have always been a werewolf fan, going back to a bleary-eyed Lon Chaney Jr. in “The Wolf Man.”

I even tried once to sell a werewolf movie. It was about a kennel owner who stumbled across a werewolf and trained him to fetch and heel. I called it “The Strange Summer of Wolfy Allen,” not to be confused with Woody Allen, who is having a pretty strange summer of his own.

I showed it to Danny Arnold, who was producing “Barney Miller.” He said, “Sorry, kid, I’ve already got a werewolf script.” I followed that with an idea for a comedy based on a mortuary. I took it to a man at CBS. He said, “Sorry, kid, we already have a mortuary comedy.”

“Will the movie live forever?” I asked Arkoff.

He thought about the question as he relit his cigar. “I don’t make movies for eternity,” he said. “They end up in museums and colleges.”

Kristina nodded her head. Kristina nodded at almost everything Sam said and laughed at every joke. That’s understandable. She wants to be the next teen-age werewolf. I laughed and nodded when I was young.

She admitted to never having seen Sam’s first werewolf movie, but likes the idea.

“When I heard about it,” she said, “I thought oh, cool, it’s not a bimbo role.”

“A werewolf role is better?” I asked.

“It’s a role you can sink your teeth into,” Sam said.

Kristina laughed and nodded.

“She could have the vulnerable quality we need,” Sam said.

“The person should definitely be vulnerable,” Kristina said, appearing suddenly vulnerable.

I had the feeling that if Sam had said the werewolf ought to be able to sing and dance, she’d have agreed to that too.

Sam has been married happily for 46 years, a rarity anywhere. “I told Hilda when we got married I would never wash dishes and I would always smoke cigars.”

“My father smoked cigars,” Kristina said cheerfully. “I actually love cigars.” She nodded automatically.

“One final question,” I said. “Is the business any different today than in 1957?”

“It’s still a carnival,” Sam said. “I don’t take it seriously. But, hell, how can the man who made ‘I Was a Teenage Werewolf’ take anything seriously?”

Kristina laughed and nodded.