From the fevered mind of a Texas fertilizer salesman, the world was given Manos, The Hands Of Fate, and the world hasn't quite recovered yet. That's because the flick is really...
By Kurt W. Schulz
(Annoying Personal Pause: This missive, my first for
this "die-vine" product of mass media, is 
dedicated to Dave Duggins, a regular
here. For those of you who don't know, Dave and I were stationed together in England a
while back. When I left the lovely confines of Benton Harbor, Michigan, I was but a mere
lad; eighteen years old and an innocent abroad, who had only a passing taste for horror
movies and weird stuff in general. Dave took me under his wing. So you know who to
blame...and cheers, Dave. Now on with the show...)
You know you're in for a bumpy ride when a film presents to you as its antagonist a gentleman who, while supposedly being in league with Satan, wears a black robe that looks slightly like something off of Maude.
Ladies and gentlemen...I submit for your approval the following piece of cinematic dreck:
Manos, the Hands of Fate.
Longtime MST3K (translation: Mystery Science Theater
3000) fans will no doubt have every scene, line and joust from Joel and the 'bots
memorized ("Thanks for letting me crash here 
last night,
man" being one of my favorites). This article, then, is for the neophyte; the
newcomer to either the best thing out of Minnesota since Husker Du (i.e., MST3K), or the
vagaries of Texan filmmaking. Manos was produced and created in and by a resident
of the Lone Star state, who also happened to be a fertilizer company chief. You may insert
the appropriate joke here.
Manos is ostensibly the story of a vacationing family who, after becoming lost, drive for what seems like twelve hours (real time, not movie time; the driving sequence is interminably long), they wind up at a rundown house which appears to be merely the renovated Gein place, but is in actuality a doorway to the mouth of Hell. Or something like that.
The history behind the film is (slightly) more interesting than the actual film itself: fertilizer magnate Hal Warren, in what must have been a moment of supreme hubris, apparently decided that what the world (or at least, Texas) needed was a film produced, directed, written by, and starring him. Thus, with a noticeable lack of vigor, did Warren set about his task.
Warren plays the role of the "hero" of the film, a rather cold, unsympathetic father/husband who has dragged his wife and child (and pet poodle Pepe) to the hinterlands of El Paso. In one memorable scene, the brave adventurers pull over to get their bearings. Behind them is a vast wasteland that looks freshly minted by an atomic blast. Not ten minutes into the film yet, and already we're confronted with striking surreal images...either that or the alleged "cinematographer" didn't realize that his backdrop looked like Ground Zero.
Diane Mahree plays the "heroine" of the film, a spunky little Southern waif whose most memorable moments come (and no, I'm not sexist) when she is clad in her slip. Their daughter is played by an unknown actress, approximately seven or eight years old, who I'm sure had to go through her later years pretending to smile politely when asked about her "big role".
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| Torgo meets the heroine... | Torgo in a reflective mood... |
When the three travelers approach the shanty that is the doorway to damnation, they stumble upon what has to be one of cult cinema's most instantly endearing characters: Torgo.
Torgo. The man who, due to his fealty to the Lord of the Flies, has been stricken, cursed, and forced to bear the ultimate deformity, visited upon those that traffic in the affairs of the Dark Lord: big knees.
Yes, you heard me. Big knees. I mean really big, knobby, you-could-set-a-cup-of-coffee-down -on-those-jokers large size knees. If this is not a direct sign of the Mark of the Beast, then I don't know what is. Torgo, played with a tremendous lack of subtlety by one John Reynolds, also stutters a lot and repeats the same phrases over. And over. And over. And over. And...
He valiantly tries to sway the three from staying at his rundown villa, by constantly telling them, "The Master would not approve." Undaunted, Warren leads his cinematic family into the Ninth Circle and a nightmare worse than even the fevered imaginations of H.P. Lovecraft...well, maybe more like the fevered "hey, I've got a silly notion" moments of H.P. Lovecraft. Or maybe the slightly heated "you know, a funny thing just occurred to me" moments of H.P. Lovecraft. Or maybe not.
The family, having settled into a stranger's house for
the night, promptly act like normal people do when visiting someone else: they begin
snooping around and exploring the joint. Eventually, they start to think something is
wrong when A) a hound of Hell is found sniffing 
around by their daughter, B) Pepe is
killed, presumably by said hound of Hell, and C) their daughter disappears. Even though
neither husband nor wife has shown even the slightest hint of affection towards each other
or anyone else, they clasp hands in a touching moment that signifies...well, I'm not
exactly sure, but if it had been in a better flick, it would have been damned sentimental,
that's for sure.
The Master's presence, for the most part, is represented by a painting that looks surprisingly like a Rembrandt...had Rembrandt been blind in one eye, unable to see out of the other, and had all the coordination and grace of a Chicago Cubs catcher with lead weights affixed to his limbs. When the Master finally makes his dramatic appearance, it is hard not to choke back derisive laughter: the actor portraying the Master, Tom Hayman, imports to his role all the sensitivity and subtlety of Andrew Dice Clay addressing the DAR.
The Master, for whatever reason, has umpteen dozen wives, and is looking to add to his harem our spicy Southern heroine. The wives, being wives, disagree with this, and spontaneously perform the old Monty Python "Ladies' Guild reenacting the Battle of Pearl Harbor" bit at a moment's provocation. To complicate matters, Torgo has lust in his heart, and during a touching soliloquy, expounds upon the nature of humanity and loneliness in his soul. Or maybe he just fumbles and mumbles and fondles a couple of wives, who, when not preparing for ladies' wrestling matches, tend to sleep a lot. Like the audience during this film.
Eventually all hell breaks loose: The wives wrestle, Torgo expresses his feelings to our heroine, the Master breaks the wives up, the Master chastises Torgo by poking him in the package with a long staff with a skeleton hand on it, the wives wrestle again, our hero is knocked out and tied up by Torgo, our hero is kissed and slapped alternately by an escaped wife, the wives wrestle again, Torgo is punished by having his hand set on fire; he is immediately rewarded by running off set and never having to be in this film again. The abovementioned scenes may or may not be in order. It doesn't really matter either way, trust me.
Of
course, evil triumphs, as is proven by the mere fact that this film exists. Our hero
replaces Torgo; fresh in his service to Beelzebub, his knees are not yet blighted with the
swelling curse. Two other women, probably on their way to see that "nutty" Pat
Boone or something (oh, did I mention the film was made in the 1960's? Well, there, I just
did), encounter the unsafe haven. The Master sleeps as does his coven of wives, including
our heroine, and (in a shockingly crass and tasteless move) her young daughter. And that,
as they say, completes the circle.
I haven't even touched on some other aspects of the film, such as the "filmography by Zapruder" style that graces every frame, lending it a sleazy "snuff flick" atmosphere. Had Manos been released today, it would have the tagline "Never before, in the history of film, has there been a movie that makes a John Waters film look like a Merchant/Ivory production!" I'm serious here, people. Manos, in its' visual style, reaches a level of sheer despair and sleaziness that is desired by pornographers, snuff-film makers, and "schoolgirl spanking" flick creators the world over. It is rivaled in that aspect only by Ray Dennis Steckler's body of work.
The sound was apparently recorded inside a fishbowl under a carpet with a box of old newspapers on top of it...in the basement, which drowns out all but the highest pitched noises (usually those of the daughter). Add to that the attempt at a running gag of having two young kids necking, then being chased off by the cops. I say "attempt" at a running gag because it happens exactly twice.
Trust me, folks, my words cannot do justice to this colossally inept film. It's worth seeing for Torgo's knees alone. As a bonus, if you're interested in reading a review of this film when it *first* came out, check out the MST3K Movie Guide Review. In there, you should find a review of Manos, The Hands Of Fate by one Barbara Funkhouser, for the El Paso Times, dated Nov. 16, 1966.
How does Manos, The Hands of Fate fare in the "worst movie ever" stakes? Well, I'll put it this way: I would rather watch Manos straight through without Joel and Co., than to ever watch Titanic, Good Will Hunting, or The Truman Show. In other words, it's no worse comparatively than your average overbudgeted, underplotted, badly acted Hollywood blockbuster. I'm not saying Manos is good, but compared to the above named, "deep" films, it's a masterpiece of subtlety and grace...that is, if you include inducing a deep sleep as a factor of being subtle...
And on a final note, as has been pointed out by the people behind MST3K in their Amazing Colossal Episode Guide, the word Manos in Greek means "hands". You do the math.
Any way you do the math, Manos adds up to one putrid flick! By the way, for a behind-the camera look at the making of Manos, check out this article. Cheers!
Article copyright Kurt W. Schulz
