Review: The Last Werewolf


Glen Duncan, The Last Werewolf, Great Britain, Canongate Books Ltd, 2011, 346p.

The Last Werewolf is a fabulous, gritty and hot read from the sardonic, tired and intelligent view of Jacob Marlowe, the last known werewolf on record.

The story hooks you in immediately with a gunshot in Paris and before long you’re off and racing following Jake on his spendthrift, sex-fueled run from the government, equally annoying vampires and occult nutters.

Jake is the perfect description of a (wolf) man who has lived long enough to see himself as the bane of his own existence. He expresses this through hilarious inner dialogue and a suave coolness of someone who’s seen, felt, heard, smelt and tasted it all. A pro of life; no surprises and sheer sarcastic boredom – until now.

Duncan writes a dark, smoke-hazed and necessarily hedonistic real life perspective on being a ‘tale as old as time’, remaining werewolf. The facts regarding Jake’s life as a wolf-man are portrayed with a hipster shrug and a giant ‘meh’.

Then shit gets serious as Jake finds himself in the middle of a conspiracy, finally realising something – and someone – worth existing for.

A brilliant adult page turner for supernatural and horror fans.

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