Manos: The Hands of Fate

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.

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!

This movie should serve as warning to anyone who tries to make up a movie as you go along. An overused concept (family gets lost) meets a cliche (wierd guy who talks of a master)and then degrades into one big mess. The couple's little girl vanishes during filming or seems to be and a wierdo shows off his girl collection; they may or not be vampires or zombies, you never know. The story is missing, the flow is ambigous and it moves like words in an alphabet soup. Nonsense and confusion are the result. Thank you, but no thank you, Doctor Forrester.

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.

If it wasn't for MST3K, I wouldn't have seen Manos: The Hands of Fate. I knew I had to see it to see if it really was that bad. The negative criticisms and those slamming it as the worst movie ever do not lie, Manos: The Hands of Fate is as bad as all that. There is such thing as a terrible movie that has novelty comic value, but there is also such thing as a movie that is too inept to take that into consideration. Some will disagree, but I consider Manos: The Hands of Fate as a good example of the latter. To call the way the movie is made amateurish is being too kind, the camera work and editing are all over the place and makes anything that happens incomprehensible. The visual effects are dated and make everything even more artificial than it already is, while the bizarre and often out of sync sound effects and a score that is shrill and monotonous are enough to make your ears bleed. And even when your poor ears are suffering enough, they are assaulted even more by dialogue that is stilted, insultingly cheesy and too talky and some of the worst and annoying acting ever in film history. The villain is quite possibly the most laughable and underwhelming villain ever and you'd be hard pressed to find one that is worse-acted than here. Torga is the best thing about Manos: The Hands of Fate, but that's saying nothing as he's still irritating. The direction is so flat that you have to look hard to find evidence of any direction at all, while the story is incredibly thin and is so plodding that you're dying of boredom. In conclusion, hopelessly inept. 0/10 Bethany Cox