Living as we all are in a post-Romantasy world, certain chain bookstores (RIP Borders) have been financially reinvigorated. This, of course, has simultaneously resulted in the ruination (no, not an overreaction) of poetry and fantasy as respectable, substantive genres of literature — to different degrees, of course; let’s be honest, Tolkien is far closer to Twilight than Keats is to Atticus or whatever “poet” du jour or delusional pop star is riddling tween IGs with ABAB inspo nonsense in 2024. This observation is admittedly little more than digressionary whinging, but also case in point that bookstores have become more influential as cultural rather than literary institutions, enthusiastically peddling party games, tchotchkes, and branded stationary at the expense of the spectrum ranging from Oprah’s Book Club to academia canon. This being the case, it’s likely that you or someone you know has at the very least caught a glimpse of One Night Ultimate Werewolf gracing the shelves of your local B&N. The most commercially successful and dormitory-popular adaptation of Dimitry Davidoff’s psychological premise-cum-social deduction card game Mafia, the ONUW iteration sold in stores now comes laden with numerous expansions and phone app tie-ins.
But before this proliferation of redundancies that is the board/card game landscape of our present moment took hold, there was The Werewolves of Miller’s Hollow, a pared-down French adaptation of Mafia that arrived in a barely larger than 4×4 in. box but which held all the expansive strategic potential of a deduction/negotiation/bluffing apparatus designed to exploit/expose the nastiest/savviest of people/werewolves. Which is to say, snark aside, Mafia or Werewolf or [insert preferred nomenclature] is an undeniably fun product. Requiring dexterous skill of tongue, facility with deflection, and a certain ruthlessness, one round of the game takes mere minutes to complete but can easily occupy hours of time, ruin friendships, and establish a potentially damaging hierarchy of prevaricative skill within otherwise tight social circles.
And so, the premise of a film based on the game — which is exactly what Francois Uzan’s Family Pack claims to do — offers plenty of built-in intrigue. Specifically utilizing the aforementioned Miller’s Hollow version of the game as a jumping off point, Uzan’s film follows a modern-day family of second spouses (Franck Dubosc and Suzanne Clément), step-siblings/children, and a dementia-addled grandpa (Jean Reno) as they embark on a little lighthearted gameplay, only to find themselves cast back into medieval times — to the village of Miller’s Hollow, of course — where they must survive the rules of the game: specifically, suss out who is a werewolf (while hoping that it’s none of them), watch the “brutality” of elder days humanity unfold before their eyes, and return to their own time. Oh, and also, each family member discovers that in this yesterday time they each have the powers of one of the game’s “cards,” which will be familiar to anyone who has played Werewolf and bluntly explained via exposition for everyone else; hunters are hyper-strong, seers hear thoughts, witches do witch shit, etc. (Any inclination to read 21-century conspiracy theory appeal into this witch hunt is fun, particularly as it indicts the half of America inclined toward PizzaGate thinking, but its almost certainly accidental; that would be giving this film far too much credit.)
So yes, Family Pack is unabashedly taking a page out of Jumanji’s book, only missing most of that page — to say Uzan’s film is lighter than whipped cream doesn’t quite convey the absolute nothing going on here. To say Junamji seems Kubrickian by contrast gets you closer. Beyond fully misunderstanding what is so fascinating about the game and what it conveys about the nature of the human and the self as disparate identities, Family Pack boasts all the production value of Halloweentown, or maybe a sub-Troma production, with werewolf wear reminiscent of your local middle school costume party. And the humor leaves plenty to be desired — a joke that hinges on hemming and hawing between extricating an arrow from flesh vs. leaving it be results in an in-out-in-out punchline that mildly amuses; others about burning redheads or what level of wife-beating is acceptable are kind of bizarre in a film this family-facing. And then there is the absolutely out-of-nowhere nonsense of a musical performance utilized as climactic distraction; there’s plenty of exposition to explain its in-film logic, but it constitutes a wildly protracted build-up to a wet toot of a payoff. Streaming as it is on a platform loaded with bloated mid-concept claptrap that consistently feints toward genuine substance while doing little to develop any real playfulness or artistry works to lend Uzan’s film a refreshing flavor, even if it’s all rooted in a frothiness that has been hard to find in recent decades outside of the straight-to-video children’s bargain bin market. But to use the parlance of the game that inspires it, Family Pack is a townsperson in a world of werewolves. It might be easy to appreciate the film’s gentle modesty, but there isn’t an exciting bone to be found in this festering carcass.
DIRECTOR: Francois Uzan; CAST: Franck Dubosc, Jean Reno, Suzanne Clément, Jonathan Lambert; DISTRIBUTOR: Netflix; STREAMING: October 23; RUNTIME: 1 hr. 35 min.
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