American pals (David Naughton and Griffin Dunne) become pedigree chums after getting lost on the Yorkshire Moors under a full moon.

John Landis’ horror/comedy crossbreed is best remembered for its notorious Jenny Agutter shower scene and ground-breaking Werewolf effects. But it’s his storytelling that transforms the 1981 film from late-night staple to all-time classic; a hybrid of lycanthropy and humanity that makes you howl with laughter and horror.

Few flicks strike such a delicate balance, Shaun of the Dead being another good example. Landis’ creature feature takes itself seriously enough that we can truly invest in the story and its characters – none of the embarrassing doglike behaviour that plagues 2005’s Cursed, where Christina Ricci walks around sniffing people.

An American Werewolf in London actually shows reverence for its lupine lineage, wryly referencing 1941’s The Wolf Man without ever veering into parody. But it also recalls 1971’s Straw Dogs, another picture about an American David ostracised by the Christian community of rural England. This Jewish subtext runs through the movie like a bad dream; after his friend becomes dog food, David has recurring nightmares of mutant Nazis, as survivor’s guilt literally tears him up inside.

Every element is sharply thought out, from the soundtrack comprised of moon-based songs (Moondance, Blue Moon, Bad Moon Rising) to the way London is woven into the plot. The real locations and Rick Baker’s hair-raising effects (Jack’s decomposition continues to shock) make such believable monstrosity, grounding the violence and comedy in daily reality. It all drives towards a brutal ending, but not before the characters have clawed their way into our hearts.

A tragicomic monsterpiece with belly laughs and emotional bite, An American Werewolf in London is the genre’s best in show, and Landis’ finest by a country mile.