The Manitou

Rather than a horror movie, we find ourselves in front of a hotbed of unintentional humor. Thinking he’s William Friedkin, poor Girdler (whose life will be prematurely cut short by a tragic accident the same year as the film’s release), was in a state of alcoholic hallucinosis when he co-wrote and directed this incomparable monstrosity where inane motivations and embarrassing dialogue are the order of the day.

The film is painful right from the very first scene: the calmness with which Karen talks to the doctor about the sudden appearance of a disgusting fleshy growth on her body is perplexing (even more so as she refers to the lump with “cutesy” metaphors along the lines of: “It almost shifts, as if, uh… well, it’s as if someone were trying to turn over and get comfortable in bed“). The story navigates through preposterous situations and illogical characters – the screwed-up anthropologist, the unstable little old lady, the drowsy nurse guarding the monster – before unraveling in an insane ending where the surgical ward of an American hospital becomes the stage for a no-holds-barred battle among spirits of various ranks and origins.

Plenty of scenes are too laughable for words: the tarred head emerging from the table during the séance, Karen’s “spinal” birth, the clash with the Silver Lizard, the “Geronimo” fetishes in the operating room.

Terrible cast, starting with a totally exhausted Tony Curtis.