Manos: As Mãos do Destino

When I watch a film for the first time it is generally quite easy for me to establish an initial opinion of the film at hand. At times I will come to this very website and submit a rating of the given film or perhaps I will turn to a friend and give my thoughts of the film (which tend to be quite clear). Well, after reading quite a few extremely hyped reviews and discussions throughout the internet, I decided to try my luck and buy the alleged worst film of all time: ''Manos': The Hands of Fate'. Let it be clear that this review does not pertain to the Mystery Science Theater 3000 version of the film; rather it applies to Hal P. Warren's original, cut-and-dry, El Paso-born version of the film. ''Manos': The Hands of Fate' may very well be, one of the only films of which classification is painstakingly difficult to near-impossible. The film leaves a quaint, surreal, and indecisive effect upon the viewer which is what leads to the formulation of this strange conclusion.

Warren's film opens on a vacationing family traveling through El Paso, Texas. The family consists of little Debbie (Jackey Neyman), Margaret (Diane Mahree), and Mike (played by our very own Hal P. Warren). Surely enough, the travelers are soon found lost on the way to their vacation site. They eventually turn onto a long dirt road marked by a sign promising a "Valley Lodge". After a great deal of aimless meandering throughout the backwoods of El Paso, the vacationers come across a mysterious Lodge run by an awkward and deformed Satyr named Torgo (John Reynolds). Seeing as it is getting late, the visitors ask about staying the night only to be deterred by Torgo's ominous words "The master would not approve." After some pressure from the family, Torgo folds and allows the newcomers to stay. As the visitors enter the lodge they are welcomed by a mantel full of strange hand-like pagan icons and sculptures, accompanied by a strange portrait of presumably The Master and his hound. As Michael and his wife Margaret observe the strangeness of the portrait and their surroundings, a strange howl is heard from outside in the desert. Soon strange happenings begin around this lodge of sins, as Michael and his family's fate is determined by "the hands of fate"

To be blunt, the film is simply quite technically limited. Supposedly the film was shot entirely on one camera which was only capable of shooting 60 seconds of film at a time. To say that this hurt the film would be an untrue, if anything it helped the pacing of this little low-budget flick. Hal P. Warren was a director with literally no experience or conceived directorial abilities; he had no knowledge of pacing or camera work (if he had any it was most likely limited to home videos). The acting for the most part is quite dismal, the only exception being a wonderful character conceived by Warren named Torgo. Reynolds' portrayal of Torgo is supreme; although having no professional training or profession acting experience in cinema he creates a one of-a-kind character, which has been quite unparalleled in cult-cinema. No matter how much one hates this film, they will always remember the timid and tormented Torgo, uttering his infamous line: "The Master would not approve." The music featured in the film is quite repetitive and amateur, although at times it does add to the feel, aid the pacing, and promote the overall camp-factor of the film (which was sometimes delightful). The cinematography is certainly not note-worthy, nor is the lighting. The editing seemed to have been done with haste and is one of the key factors which seems to have earned this film its reputation. One thing however, which is not widely criticized by viewers is the plot. It is a plot with great potential that was realized by Warren; at the time it would have been quite fresh. Interestingly enough, it could vaguely be seen as a blundering, early version of 'The Texas Chain Saw Massacre' (not to say that Tobe Hooper drew any influence from ''Manos': The Hands of Fate').

Well, this is widely considered to be the downright worst of the worst – the bottom of the bottom. As stated earlier, I cannot place this film on a scale of one to ten, yet I can argue that this is a false statement. Almost every aspect of the film is done poorly, yet as odd as it sounds, the movie generates a charming and enjoyable little atmosphere; it simply does not feel like the worst one out there. There are plenty of films which are far less enjoyable to watch than Manos. Technically speaking the assumption can be made that it is the worst, but then again there are films with far more dismal lighting, far more sloppy camera work and far worse pacing. One could contend that the acting is downright dismal and corpse-like in every respect, yet there are films with worse acting and absolutely no memorable or quotable (Torgo - whether it be mocking or homage) characters. Hence, in many respects Hal Warren's single 1966 production isn't the worst piece of celluloid out there, yet at the same time it possess many, if not all of the qualities which could be attributed to the worst film of all time. However, the goal of this review was not to debunk the position in cinema history ''Manos': The Hands of Fate' has achieved, but rather to offer a little insight into what this film has to offer. In all fairness, I enjoyed it in a wonderful, campy, and surreal sort of way... after all, what other film is out there like this? What film is there that was made on possibly the lowest budget of all time, featuring the work of the most cinematically inept individuals, yet despite these obvious flaws has kept people talking about it for years to come?

I should note here that I sort of like bad movies. If it's amusing and campy, I'll cut it a break.

But Manos is different.

My god. What can I say about a movie so bad that it makes Plan 9 From Outer Space look like Casablanca? What can I say about a movie that has endless looped scenes of driving, the worst evil henchman in movie history, the lamest dialouge this side of my first grade hebrew school play, a movie that seems to have put together by people with utter contempt for the audience's intelligence? All I can say is this: it seems The Master's prayers to Satan have been answered. This movie is pure hell.

Manos: The Hands of Fate, currently ranked #5 on IMDb's Bottom 100, is a rite of passage for serious fans of trashy horror movies, marking the transition from 'merely bad' to 'completely and utterly inept in every way imaginable. It's a test of fortitude that sees many fall by the wayside; however, those who do manage to go the distance can wear their achievement as a badge of pride, knowing that they have taken the very worst that z-grade horror can throw at them and survived the ordeal (albeit with possible mental scarring).

The one-and-only film from Harold P. Warren, who obviously realised thereafter that film directing wasn't his forté, Manos opens with a family driving through the desert on their way to Valley Lodge for a vacation. Unfortunately, father Michael (Harold P. Warren, proving that acting wasn't his forté either), his wife Margaret (Diane Adelson), and daughter Debbie (Jackey Neyman) soon find themselves lost, eventually pulling up to a strange desert hostel where they are greeted by twitchy manservant Torgo (John Reynolds), who looks like he stores bags of popcorn or cotton wool down his trousers.

Torgo warns that his master (Tom Neyman) won't be happy if they stay the night, but they won't take no for an answer; their stubborn insistence puts them in serious peril, for the master is the head of a Satanic cult and he wants to add Margaret to his collection of brides.

To list everything that is wrong with this film would take longer than it took me to watch it (including the times where I fell asleep and had to rewind), suffice to say that there are fewer examples of poor editing, dreary pacing, atrocious direction, woeful acting, and diabolical dubbing. Quite how Warren and company managed to mess up in all departments is one of the great mysteries of cinema, ranking right up there with the inexplicable popularity of Seth Rogen, but it has ensured the film a notoriety that means it will never be forgotten.

Equaled in clarity of vision and flawless execution only by the greater works of Orson Welles and Alfred Hitchcock, brilliant independent film auteur Hal Warren's ‘Manos: The Hands of Fate' transcends its genre to do everything that it should and even more. Not only is it riveting edge of your seat entertainment, it also boasts a psychological depth unequaled by any other horror movie, achieved mostly through John Reynold's Oscar-worthy, divinely subtle performance as the tormented, tragically misshapen caretaker Torgo. Part Quasimodo, part Hamlet, this gentle soul's noble end, in which he is massaged to death by a group of terrifying succubae in luscious robes, is unarguable one of the most poignant in motion picture history – it is both a tragedy and a triumph of the human spirit. Oh, was I alone with a tear in the eye at the end!

Indeed, Hal Warren's masterpiece achieves the perfect balance between the heartrendingly sad, the refreshingly sardonic, and the chillingly satanic. The Master and his hellbeast are as much evil personified as Margaret is the embodiment of goodness and chastity. In a way, this is the definitive modern-day equivalent of Goethe's Faust, though even more sublime in the simple poetry of its dialogue. When Torgo describes his master as being `not dead the way you know it' and `with us always' he is speaking for all of us, how we truly live on through the memory of our words and deeds in the minds of those who follow us, be they righteous or malevolent.

Hal Warran not only changed the face of the Texan film industry by encapsulating such a grand story in less than 75 minutes, it also helped usher in a whole new perspective of looking at film, discovering different forms which never would have been conceived. Also, it's obviously a very personal film for Warren, who allows us to share his love and devotion to the project, and it is a truly moving, cathartic experience.

It will make you laugh, it will make you cry, and maybe – just maybe – you'll learn a little bit about yourself.

This isn't a movie. This isn't even a home video. It's a home video that aspired to be a movie but crashed somewhere in-between, and plummeted through the abyss to depths unimaginable by the mainstream. Coherence is the film's greatest foe: bizarrity and incompetence its watchwords. This is it, bad movie buffs. This is Manos: Hands of Fate.

Years ago, in the dusty desert outside El Paso, an unknown fertilizer salesman decided to craft a horror film with the assistance of friends throughout the El Paso area, and a legend was born. Armed with $19,000 dollars, a cheap 16mm camera, and absolutely no knowledge of the art of film-making whatsoever, Hal P. Warren set out upon his masterpiece.

There is absolutely no redeeming quality about Manos. There is no directing, the editing appears as if it was done by a blind member of some mud-crawling insect species, the artwork is a stain upon the name of art, the script is a poorly cluttered and illogical joke masking the director's fantasies, the dialog will have you tear out your eardrums with your fingernails, and the acting is so atrocious you will feel as if the movie has violated you. It isn't as bad as Monster-a-Go-Go, but it almost manages to snatch the sorry laurels of worst movie ever made from that Lovecraftian abomination.

Manos must have put good directors like Kubrick or Capra in convulsions during its production: so powerful is the elemental force of badness flowing from every stinking pore of its perverse form. It is the polar opposite to the good movie, the parameters of its illogicity and non-acting existing to defy the borders of taste, and ultimately, sanity. Every grainy, scratchy, blurry frame of the muddy color palette and every sound byte of the poorly synchronized and terribly dubbed dialog offers an entrancing glance into a deeper, darker world of madness that is Manos the Hands of Fate. It is not of this earth. It is not of our dimension. Surely Hal P. Warren was some malfeasant alien god from a realm far removed from our own, hurtling across the icy chasms of space with a vile mission in store for the unsuspecting members of the cinematic world.

Its legacy, however, lives on in the form of Mystery Science Theater. The acid-tipped barbs flew fast and furiously, striking the venerable beast in its countless weak points, crafting from the chaos a comedic gem that approaches cinematic perfection stamped into the world of movies in its own stinking ichor. This is Manos: Hands of Fate. This is the purifying baptism of fire that scourges the detestable vestiges of mediocrity and normalcy from the mainstream viewer and forever makes them a member of the cult world, the world of bad movies and weirdness that cannot be imagined. It is the cornerstone, the figurehead, the mighty totem representing everything that Mystery Science Theater and the legions of bad movie sites across the Web hold dear to their hearts.

Rejoice, connoisseurs of bad movies! Fall upon the dark altar of Manos to pay homage to Torgo and the Master, and forever remember the twisted legacy they wrought from the tangled celluoid! Imitate Torgo's stumbling walk and high-brained drawl, until it fuses with the very core of your being!