The Wolfpack – Film Review by C.K. MacNamara

Directed by: Crystal Moselle

Starring: Visnu Angulo, Susanne Angulo, Oscar Angulo, Krsna Angulo

The Wolfpack is a thought experiment come to life: what would the world look like if your only source of reference were its films. Such is the premise of Moselle’s debut documentary on the life of the Angulo family. Raised in near utter isolationism in a New York apartment by hippie nihilists turned secluded psychotics whose “over protectiveness” (paranoid delusions) are the justification for hiding away their children, the boy’s only perception of the outside world is through the lens of their fathers Hollywood collection.

Their cheap static tinged TV thus becomes the porthole through which the boys grow up, and inevitably they latch onto the on-screen lives to compensate for their own chronic lack of experience. This myopic view of the world through a one way medium inspires them to react in the only they can; by crafting elaborate homemade props and costumes, and re-enacting their favourite films from the stage of their tiny Lower East Side bunker.

As one would expect, the boy’s perception of themselves and the world around them is a skewed caricature, and much of the film is spent between their homemade movie archive and their eventual exposure to the outside world, which they explore armed with a fashion sense pulled from Reservoir Dogs.

Despite this once in a lifetime subject matter Director Moselle fails to explain when/why/how she came into contact with this extraordinary family, nor how she convinced them to abandon their isolationism and allow a film crew into their lives. The need to ‘not interfere’ with your subject matter does not excuse the jarring level of disorganisation present in the film. She fails even to give the boys themselves enough exposure to establish their own personalities; they remain ‘the boys’ throughout, never getting the chance to exhibit any individual character to distinguish the long haired brothers. Hints at their fathers abuses (both physical and emotional) are just that, unaddressed hints. The sense of having only scratched the surface of her subject matter is painfully obvious, and she fails to venture beyond the initial ‘homemade movie’ gimmicks rather than delve into the deeper aspects of the boy’s isolationism.

Their father remains unrepentant in the destruction he has wrought, lamenting the similarities between his actions and Jesus, half assed even in trying to justify his abuses. The mother remains similarly resolute, and aside from a tacked on scene where she reconnects with her own mother after 50 years via a phone call, remains adamant her emotionally stunted upbringing of her sons was well intentioned, if not well executed.

The culmination of the film is as one might expect; one of the boys launching his own tentative filmmaking career with the family cast as personified emotions, moving by a makeshift window in exquisite homemade costumes as he looks on.

Overall The Wolfpack offers a bizarre and fascinating glimpse into lives of pure isolationism, and it is hard not to relate to the boys as they slowly adjust to the world outside their window in defiance of their tyrannical father.

However, the questions Moselle leaves unaddressed and the lack of cohesion often undermines the films finer points; less a documentary and more an extended Vlog. If Mukunda ever moves beyond the realm of homemade short film and turns the camera back on himself we may see a more sincere account of this bizarre family.