You can’t fully duplicate the nerdy joy that only Euro-horror can deliver — the fog-drenched castles, the fever-dream logic, the bold primary colors that make every drop of blood look like paint straight out of a Giallo kit. Frankenstein’s Bloody Terror is one of those films. Misleading title? Absolutely. But what you get instead is a werewolf movie so committed to its gothic mood swings and supernatural flair that you forget — or stop caring — about the bait-and-switch.

Marketing rarely births legends, but Frankenstein’s Bloody Terror proves exceptions exist. American producer Samuel M. Sherman needed a second Frankenstein film for a promised double feature. Having only one, he screened foreign imports, found this Spanish werewolf movie originally titled La Marca del Hombre Lobo (The Mark of the Wolf Man), added narration explaining the Frankensteins became Wolfsteins, and released it.

The deception launched Paul Naschy‘s career and introduced Waldemar Daninsky to audiences—twelve films would follow across four decades, cementing Naschy as Spanish horror’s greatest icon. Director Enrique López Eguiluz‘s film has nothing to do with Frankenstein or his bloody terror, but it has everything to do with European monster cinema’s unique sensibility.

Count Waldemar Daninsky suffers a werewolf bite and seeks aid from Dr. Janos Mikhelov (Julian Ugarte) and his wife, Wandesa, specialists in occult matters. Unbeknownst to Waldemar, they’re vampires with sinister plans. Yes, that’s right. No Frankenstein. No mad science. Just werewolves versus vampires. And you know what? It’s kind of great.

This simple setup spirals into Gothic mayhem as werewolf battles vampire while love interest Countess Janice von Aarenberg (Dyanik Zurakowska) tries saving Daninsky’s soul. The plot meanders more than compels—four screenwriters couldn’t craft coherence—but atmosphere, passion, and monster-on-monster action compensate for narrative shortcomings.

Naschy (born Jacinto Molina) not only starred but wrote the script, inspired by Lon Chaney Jr.‘s The Wolf Man and Universal’s classic monsters. His dedication to the genre and Daninsky character would span decades, making him Spain’s horror ambassador. Originally hoping to cast Chaney himself, Naschy took the role when Chaney declined due to poor health, beginning a legacy rivaling Italy’s giallo masters and Britain’s Hammer Films.

What sets Naschy apart is unabashed love for horror and commitment to craft despite limited resources. His Daninsky blends physicality, melancholy, and pathos, echoing Universal’s tragic monsters. Frankenstein’s Bloody Terror isn’t his best work, but it laid the foundations for a remarkable career. The Hombre Lobo series would see him reprise Daninsky in Werewolf Shadow (1971), Night of the Howling Beast (1975), The Night of the Werewolf (1981), The Beast and the Magic Sword (1983), and beyond, each entry adding layers while leaning into Gothic tropes—crumbling castles, fog-drenched landscapes, revolving supernatural foes.

The film’s flaws are undeniable. The story patchworks horror clichés with minimal cohesion. Low-budget effects and uneven performances add charm for camp enthusiasts but undermine tension. The werewolf makeup hits or misses depending on lighting. Yet Gothic atmosphere, visual style, and Naschy’s earnest performance save it. The werewolf-versus-vampire battle, though clunky, hints at potential that would be better realized in sequels. And, for what it’s worth, the cast commits admirably, if awkwardly.  Zurakowska and Aurora de Alba (as vampire Wandesa) are stunningly beautiful and bring different energies that haunt the proceedings.

Shot in Hi-Fi Stereo 70 3-D but rarely shown that way due to shoddy projection lenses, the film finally receives proper treatment in this new edition. Kino Lorber’s 4K restoration by the 3D Archive  (bless them!) presents three viewing options: stereoscopic (requiring 3-D equipment), anaglyph (one pair of red/green glasses included), and standard 2-D. Given the emulsion rot that reportedly stymied the film elements, the restoration impresses, considering the challenges with the source material. Colors register boldly, black levels run surprisingly deep (occasional crushing notwithstanding), and the model work clarity alone is makes the purchase worthwhile.

Dual commentaries add value. Tim Lucas’s highly informative track covers production woes, release history, and the evolution of werewolf cinema over time. Troy Howarth, Troy Guinn, and Rodney Barrett offer a more informal discussion of Naschy’s early years and something they refer to as Spanish “fantaterror” cinema. Lucas is seen again on an informative 3-D restoration featurette. Deleted scenes include the crucial 10-minute first reel rarely seen by U.S. audiences, significantly helping us understand the characters we are about to meet.

Is it silly? Of course. But Frankenstein’s Bloody Terror is also a love letter to monsters, mood, and the kind of horror where everything is deadly serious and deeply theatrical. It isn’t great cinema, but it’s important—the birth of a legend and pivotal moment for Spanish horror. Flaws abound, yet Naschy’s passion shines through, making this essential for cult horror historians even if casual viewers find it sluggish.