Manos: The Hands of Fate (1966)

Running Time: 1hr 10 min

Release Date: November 15, 1966

Review by: Mistress Devastatia, Dominatrix of Schlock

Just when you think you’ve seen the worst movie in history, up pops Manos: The Hands of Fate. A masterpiece of laughable dialogue, incompetent camerawork,  and too many jerky edits and set mishaps to count, this gem makes Plan 9 look like an Oscar contender.  Manos has nearly every element cheesy horror devotees hold dear, plus some of the worst acting this side of Paris Hilton. Factor in a mysterious, pervy caretaker named Torgo (who’s either suffering from advanced Parkinson’s disease or a permanent boner that inhibits his mobility) and the result is Pure Crapfest Gold.

   

In a nutshell, it goes like this:  Hot wife, chuckleheaded husband, annoying child and cute family pup embark on a fabulous vacation to the most unscenic armpit of Texas wasteland the director could possibly locate.  Of course, they become lost and hubby Mike refuses to ask anyone for directions (men, eh?).  Daughter Debbie starts whining from the back seat that she’s cold and tired and hungry. Not being a fan of crib midgets, I’m hoping at this point they’ve actually gone there to drop her off and drive away while singing a chorus of “See ya, see ya, wouldn’t wanna be ya”. No such luck. Instead, mom and pop break into a cheery round of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” to shut her up.

 Just before your ears start bleeding, the little family happens upon a nondescript building guarded by Torgo the Caretaker, who appears to be successfully coping with his COPD by playing a non-stop game of pocket pool.  Poor old Torgo will spend most of his early screen time toting their luggage to and from the car while mom and dad spend a good half hour trying to make up their minds whether to stay or leave. Torgo first hints that “the Master will not be pleased” but after an inferred offscreen caucus with this mysterious “Master”, reinforms the tourists that he’s now ok with it. On with the show.

 Oh no! Pepi the cute poodle pup has gone outside to investigate a strange noise and now he’s dead! Now usually, when the script resorts to whacking the family pet as a plot device, I regard it as a gratuitous shock-ploy indicating moronic lack of inventiveness and just plain lazy writing and the whole damn movie is deservedly panned. In this rare case, all is forgiven, for you’re left with no doubt whatsoever that little Pepi is offscreen scarfing milkbones and getting his belly rubbed as reward for allowing himself to be openly filmed in such a steaming pile of schlock. Daddy Mike quickly gets rid of the fuzzy bathroom carpet –oops, I mean the body – so Lil Debbie won’t be traumatized (as if that shitty rendition of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” didn’t do that already.)

   

  Now the fun really kicks into gear. Hubby goes out to tinker with the car, which has, of course, conveniently stopped working, and Torgo tries getting busy with hot wife Maggie (by fondling the air space around her neck – does Torgo know something we don’t?).  We’re supposed to  believe she’s terrified by this, though Torgo would probably get the same response had he cut in front of her with a full  grocery cart in the “10 Items Or Less” line.

 This is where a Rubik’s cube or your latest knitting project might come in handy; Manos’s main flaw is the (thankfully) few drawn-out spans of dead airtime as we’re treated to incomprehensible edits and wordless camera pans where, if you listen hard enough, you might actually hear your hair growing.  But there’s always the Master’s portrait to admire, a paint-by-numbers masterpiece hanging on the plywood wall, and soon enough we meet him in person.

 After more foolishness with Torgo (whom I found oddly lovable) we cut to the Master, Sonny Bono’s anorexic brother wearing an Elizabeth Taylor caftan. He lays in deep sleep, surrounded by a bevy of bouffant-haired coeds we assume are his wives. Suddenly he wakes and begins shouting prayers at a stone statue of elderly Bob Newhart. He then commands his wives to rise. Damn! Bet he wishes he hadn’t done that!

Suddenly the camera is panning over a grackle-like cluster of jabbering sister wives clad in J.C. Penny togas and granny panties grouped around some sort of sacrificial fire. They appear to be arguing over Torgo allowing the lost family to spend the night. Half the group wants to kill them all, the other half wants to whack only hubby and spare the hot wife and child (“We cannot kill the child! The child is female! She will grow up to be a woman!” No kidding? Give that wife an A+ for deductive reasoning!)

The thing to watch here is the fire. It’s been slowly building up an inordinate amount of weird black smoke so thick you can barely see who’s talking. This is no plot device – apparently, whomever was in charge of sets was probably having trouble keeping the fire burning and decided a 3 or 4 cans of lighter fluid would do the trick. And maybe a couple tires. The result is distracting whoofs of dense inky smoke that look positively dangerous. You begin hoping Torgo might come rushing in with a fire extinguisher, but before that can happen, a nice slappy catfight breaks out, with lots of rolling, squealing, hair-pulling, and panty-flashing.

The rules seem to be this: 1 – Once you get slapped, you automatically have 10 seconds of narcolepsy. 2- Make sure to slap in slow motion so the sound effects guy can time snapping the rubber band against the microphone a few seconds after your hand makes contact. 3- While roughhousing, don’t wrinkle the other girl’s toga – it isn’t nice.

 Poor old Torgo! It’s been decided to sacrifice him to Manos, though it isn’t quite clear how this is accomplished. Has something to do with holding Torgo’s hand over the fire (if the smoke doesn’t kill him first) and withdrawing a piece of roast brisket shaped like fingers. Whatever. Suddenly I was hungry for Texas Barbeque.

 Torgo screams and runs off (presumably to die – or maybe to score some Texas Barbeque) and Master decides to put the hen-peckiest of his wife on the sacrificial paper mache. A little light bondage, then Master unleashes the full fury of his limp wristed schoolgirl rage by using Snookie’s Patented Open-Handed Jersey Shore Bitch Slap, over and over and over and over…It’s brutal. Especially the jerky close up on Sister Wife’s face, strangely slathered with so much blood it appears Master has been soaking his hands in a strawberry jello mold before each whack.  Which brings us to some of the most memorable lines in the film:  “Yes, beat me! You see? I am not afraid of you! Beat me again! Beat! Beat!”

Meanwhile, what’s happened to our hapless vacationers? Hot wife Maggie is now in a slip, napping in one of the bedrooms, annoying little Debbie by her side. Hubby Mike suddenly remembers he has a gun (Wait – you had a fucking gun this whole time? ) They decide to escape into the desert night, only to change their minds and return to the house (“Let’s go back to the house! They’ll never think of looking for us there!”) Ah, good plan!

 I won’t reveal the surprise ending, because if you actually sat through this hour of solid gold poop you’re owed at least one tiny bit of Twilight Zone twist. With a snazzy soundtrack possibly composed by Chuck Mangione while strung out on bath salts and NyQuil, Manos: The Hands of Fate is a deliciously schlocky romp that won’t fail to tickle the sarcasm areas of your frontal lobe in weird and wonderful ways.  Rocky Horror fans will even experience a few delightful Brad, Janet, Riffraff, and Frank N. Furter moments. Definitely going on my Halloween Top 10.

 4 ½ out of 5 Turds!

Check out a trailer below: