HANDS OF A STRANGER (1962)

A promising concert pianist, James Stapleton, loses the use of his hands when they are thrust through the glass of a taxicab during a low-speed crash. The viewer must assume this is at least remotely possible. His hands are a mangled mess of flesh and bone. Not a scratch on his face by the way. Therapy is not an option. He receives a groundbreaking double hand transplant from the hands of a recent murder victim. Lead surgeon Paul Lukather declares the operation a success. At least he has hands that inhabit normal living. But the pre-owned hands do not respond to Stapleton's brain. They cannot discern black keys from white. In fact, both hands seem to have a brain of their own, completely taking control of the pianist's psyche. In reality, it suggests the high-strung artist had some prior mental and emotional issues.

More thriller than horror, if the title or its miss-categorized genre does not explain the premise, the first fifteen minutes will. Then settle in for the less-than-thrilling outcome. Distributed by Allied Artists Pictures—uh-oh!—it is a routine attempt to bamboozle an audience, preferably at a drive-in. The best part of this one-hundred-seventy-grand film may be the marvelous opening and subsequent scenes by photographer Henry Cronjager, Jr. The piano concert music score throughout by Richard LaSalle is appropriately used. One may spot some familiar television faces but it may be difficult to put a name to them. Also unknown at the time is Sally Kellerman, whose film fame was only slightly proportionately longer than her script, here. There are solid, sensitive performances by the three leads, however. If it were possible at the time, this movie might have gone straight to DVD.

In Stapleton's distress, the blame lies entirely with the surgeon. His older sister, Joan Harvey, is of the same mind. She hysterically believes the surgeon wanted personal glory for doing hand transplants. Talk to the hand! Her over-the-top performance during this scene made me wish I could be transplanted to another room. One expects a murdering rampage will work its way into the film's eighty-five minutes. Hands-downs, this is the main reason for its theatrical release. No real point going into detail about how or who, but know that Stapleton's script calls for him to kill—accidentally or on purpose—repeatedly thanks to those clunky criminal-mind-hands. The violence is only alluded to with any gore unnecessary since most victims expired by hand. He sets his sights on the doctor who assisted in the surgery and presumably will get around to the rest of the medical staff in due course if he survives the film.

The ending is what one would expect. We find Stapleton in a vacant, echoing concert hall as Harvey and Lukather arrive and spot his latest victim. After a few disparaging remarks, Stapleton begins pounding on the keyboard—something he never excelled at before—proving that his future may more likely include boxing.