‘Skinwalkers’ brings nothing new to the werewolf genre

By ROGER MOORE

ORLANDO SENTINEL

The first werewolves, we’re told in the new movie “Skinwalkers,” were American Indians. They called these shape-shifters “Skinwalkers.”

Which is funny because one can find ready evidence that the ancient Romans and perhaps even the ancient Greeks wrote of them. And Medieval scribes.

Fret not over the notion of a legend that a boy will be born who, on his 13th birthday, will bring an end to this “curse,” that it happens at the stroke of midnight (when else?), that there are werewolves who eat humans.

In this version of the myth there are werewolf vegetarians who fight them. With guns. Both sides are armed to the, ahem, teeth.

The boy (Matthew Knight) doesn’t know his destiny. His family has hidden it from him and protected him. The entire village of Huguenot knows.

Except for his mom (Rhona Mirtra).

So when a gang of bad werewolves come gunning for the kid, mother commences to shooting.

Mother and son make their “Terminator” getaway, with the help of Uncle Jonas (Elias Koteas, who deserves better) and other skinwalker relatives, each to be picked off in some moment of sacrifice in order to protect the kid. An American Indian enabler (Tom Jackson) is along to lash down the good werewolves every full moon.

Cheap shocks abound, but there’s a good fight, here and there. The kid’s boring and the script has the character make exactly the wrong move at every moment.

The beasties on bikes wear what look like leftover wolf-heads from the old “Beauty and the Beast” TV show. Monster-effects guy Stan Winston designed them (to his shame) and hardcore fans could actually win one by mailing their ticket stub, opening weekend, to an address given on the film’s Web site, skinwalkers.com.