Cine-Trash

The Hand (Oliver Stone, 1981)
by William Ham

It’s a fair bet that Big Ollie would rather claim that Oswald acted alone and that Jim Morrison was a lousy poet than re-admit this early directorial wank to his paranoid pantheon. After winning an Oscar for penning the script for Midnight Express (1978), Stone opted to further his commitment to exposing social injustice and wrongdoing by graphically demonstrating how major studios misuse funds by bankrolling dim-witted, absurdly unsuspenseful horror films and giving creative license to cokehead megalomaniacs. This vital historical document stars Michael “Is there a paycheck in it? I’ll bloody do it, mate!” Caine as a world-famous cartoonist who loses his livelihood when a truck lops off his… you guessed it. (Stone’s moral? Hand signals may be dangerous to your health.) Caine grows sullen, his work and marriage are jeopardized, and, just like in real life, his severed paw starts picking off his enemies one by one. Or maybe he’s just going crazy. Or maybe he’s just projecting his frustrations at not being able to do the Wave anymore. Or maybe I’ve wasted too much space on this already. Flat, wooden performances, alarmingly static direction (making this the only Stone picture that can be watched without the aid of a neckbrace), and a plotline both confusing and dull, combine to make The Hand a natural born killjoy. Sorry I had to pull this skeleton out of your closet, Ollie, but the government made me do it. Besides, I think I deserve a little credit for not referring to “the sound of one hand clapping,” or saying “thumbs down” or something equally, um, callous.