An American Werewolf in London: The Streaming Shuffle Nobody Asked For

Right, so here's a question that's been nagging at me: why is An American Werewolf in London now on Netflix? It was on Amazon Prime Video. Before that, it was free-to-watch on ITVX. This isn't just platform hopping—it's a masterclass in how streaming has made owning your media feel less like paranoia and more like common sense.

The Streaming Merry-Go-Round

Let me paint you a picture. You discover a film you absolutely adore (in my case, a 1981 horror-comedy that happens to feature brilliant lycanthropic transformation sequences—yes, of course it's a werewolf film, what did you expect from me?). You add it to your watchlist on one platform. A few months later, you fancy a rewatch, only to discover it's vanished. Not moved—vanished. You do some digging and find it's migrated to another service you either don't have or can't justify paying for. Brilliant.

This isn't unique to AAWIL, obviously. It's the streaming equivalent of musical chairs, except you're paying for multiple seats and the music never actually stops. The film's journey from free-to-air on ITVX to Prime Video to Netflix illustrates something deeply frustrating about the current media landscape: nothing is permanent, everything is licensed, and your access is contingent on corporate negotiations you have zero say in.

Why I Have My Own Copy (And You Probably Should Too)

I'm not being dramatic here. Physical media—or at least, files you actually own—has become a form of digital self-defence. When I say "own," I mean properly own. Not the "you're licensing access to this content" doublespeak that comes with digital purchases on platforms that could, theoretically, revoke your access at any time.

The thing is, I grew up watching the streaming revolution unfold. I was seven when Netflix launched in the UK. Streaming was supposed to solve piracy by making content accessible and affordable. And for a while, it worked. But now? We've circled back. Multiple subscriptions that cost more than a cable package ever did, content that disappears without warning, and licensing deals that treat films like trading cards.

The Broader Problem

This isn't just about one film or one person's viewing habits. It's about the erosion of media permanence. When everything is ephemeral—here one month, gone the next—it fundamentally changes our relationship with culture. Films become products you consume rather than works you revisit. The ability to return to something that mattered to you, to show it to someone else, to reference it in conversation with the certainty it's still accessible... that's increasingly being taken away.

And here's the kicker: this shuffling doesn't benefit anyone except the platforms themselves. Rights holders get their licensing fees, sure, but viewers are left playing a guessing game. Is the film I want to watch on Netflix? Prime? Disney+? Has it moved again? Do I need to subscribe to yet another service?

Just yesterday, my mum and I went through this entire song and dance trying to find where Braveheart was streaming. Checked Netflix. Not there. Prime? Nope. Eventually found it on Disney+—which we only have access to because of a 6-month free trial. Without that trial, we'd have been completely out of luck. That's not a functioning system; that's a lottery where you need the right subscriptions at the right time to watch anything.

What really gets me is how my generation—people who grew up with streaming as the default—just went along with it. "Oh okay, let me pay my life savings for a single film catalogue month-on-month." We accepted the premise that renting access forever was somehow better than owning things outright. And now, slowly, people are waking up and realising: shit, no, I actually want to own this. The pendulum is swinging back, but it took years of platform fragmentation and disappearing content to get here.

Physical Media Isn't Dead (And Shouldn't Be)

I know what you're thinking—"who still buys DVDs?" Not me, to be clear. But having a digital copy you actually control? That's different. There's something quietly radical about owning a film—properly owning it. Not streaming it, not renting it, not hoping it'll still be available next month—owning it.

My copy of An American Werewolf in London is a digital file I can access whenever I want. It doesn't care about licensing disputes. It doesn't vanish when a contract expires. It's mine. And before anyone suggests this is nostalgia—I was born 24 years after the film came out. This is pure practicality.

What This Says About Streaming

The constant platform-hopping of content reveals something uncomfortable about the current model: it's not built for longevity. Streaming platforms want you subscribed perpetually, consuming whatever happens to be available that month. But that's not how people actually engage with media, especially films that matter to them. We rewatch. We share. We return to things years later.

When a film like AAWIL—a cult classic, a landmark in practical effects, a film people want to revisit—gets bounced between platforms, it exposes the fundamental instability of the system. Streaming was supposed to make everything accessible. Instead, it's made everything conditional.

The Inconvenient Truth

I don't want to be the "back in my day" person, but there's something to be said for the era when buying a film meant you had it. No asterisks, no fine print about revocable licenses, no waking up one morning to find your library has been purged because a platform decided it wasn't profitable enough to keep those servers running.

The irony is that piracy—the thing streaming was supposed to solve—is making a comeback precisely because of these issues. When the legal option is fragmented, expensive, and unreliable, people will find alternatives. I'm not advocating for piracy, but I understand why it's happening. People want stability. They want to know that the thing they love will still be there tomorrow.

So What Now?

I'm not suggesting everyone go out and start hoarding Blu-rays (though honestly, it wouldn't be the worst idea). But this situation with AAWIL is a reminder to think critically about how we consume media. Streaming is convenient until it isn't. Subscriptions are affordable until you need five of them. And access is guaranteed until it's not.

For me, the solution is straightforward: if I love something, I buy it properly. Physical disc, digital purchase, whatever—just something that's actually mine. The key is having a copy that isn't dependent on whether some streaming service decides to renew a licensing deal. Don't rely on platforms to preserve access to culture. They won't. They're businesses, not libraries.

Final Thoughts

An American Werewolf in London will probably move platforms again. Maybe it'll end up back on ITVX. Maybe it'll hop to Paramount+ or some other service I've never heard of. And when it does, I'll still have my copy, sitting safely in my possession, ready to watch whenever I fancy.

That's not paranoia. That's just recognising the reality of modern media consumption. Streaming platforms will continue to play musical chairs with content, and we'll continue to be the ones left standing when the music stops. The only defence is to own the things that matter to you. Everything else is just borrowed time.