Every generation has its Charles Manson obsession. The ‘70s had Helter Skelter. The ‘90s had Trent Reznor recording Nine Inch Nails tracks inside Sharon Tate’s house, because apparently goth real estate is a thing. And then, somehow, we got Jim Van Bebber’s The Manson Family, a film that took so long to finish it basically lived through more decades than Manson’s actual parole hearings.
The movie wants to be an unflinching portrait of brainwashed hippies and their murder orgies. What it ends up being is a fever dream stitched together with LSD, rubber knives, and acting so wooden you could carve it into peace pipes.
A Movie 15 Years in the Making (and Still Underbaked)
Van Bebber started this project in the late ‘80s and finally stumbled across a release in 1997, which means this film aged in production like a rotting goat carcass in the desert. You’d think all that time would create something polished, like a Kubrickian obsession. Instead, what we got looks like the world’s most violent student film.
It’s shot like someone found a VHS camcorder at a yard sale, dropped acid, and yelled “action!” at a bunch of extras who thought they were just showing up for Burning Man.
Marcello Games as Manson: Less “Cult Leader,” More “Weird Guy at Open Mic”
The centerpiece of any Manson project is, of course, Manson himself. In this case, he’s played by Marcello Games, who delivers the kind of performance you’d expect from a guy who once tried to sell you oregano in a baggie outside a Taco Bell.
Games’ Manson isn’t charismatic or terrifying—he’s more like your neighbor’s creepy uncle who wears sunglasses indoors and insists the government is tracking him through his fillings. If real-life Manson could hypnotize fragile kids into murder with his stare, this version could maybe convince someone to buy a bootleg cassette at best.
The Family That Slays Together, Stays Together
The film gives us endless scenes of Manson’s “family”: Tex Watson, Patricia Krenwinkel, Susan Atkins, Leslie Van Houten, and a grab bag of other drugged-out extras who look like they wandered out of a Wavy Gravy acid test.
They do all the expected family activities: drop LSD, roll around naked, break into houses just to rearrange furniture (truly the most passive-aggressive crime of all time), and yes—commit murder.
Van Bebber clearly wants us to feel the hypnotic pull of Manson’s commune. Instead, it plays like the world’s worst Coachella afterparty: dirty, incoherent, and full of people who think “free love” means “let’s drug you and ruin your life.”
The Murder Scenes: Exploitation Dressed Up as History
When the film gets to the infamous Tate-LaBianca murders, you’d think maybe the tone would shift into something chilling. Nope. Van Bebber shoots it like a grindhouse splatter reel, gleefully wallowing in gore without any of the weight or tragedy.
The Sharon Tate sequence, in particular, is less horrifying than just tacky. You don’t feel fear, you feel like you’re watching a convention of horror nerds trying out fake blood recipes from Fangoria magazine.
It’s exploitation cinema at its cheapest: use a real tragedy as an excuse to show entrails and naked bodies, then pretend you’re “commenting on society.” Spoiler: you’re not.
The Puppy Scene, Because Why Not Ruin Everyone’s Day?
As if group sex, LSD, and murder weren’t enough, Van Bebber tosses in a scene where the family sacrifices a puppy during an orgy. Because nothing says “serious artistic vision” like blending necrophilia, Satanic panic, and Old Yeller.
It’s the kind of edgelord move that screams, “Look how shocking I am!”—except instead of shock, you just feel annoyed, like someone farted during a funeral.
The Framing Device: Because We Needed More Padding
To really drag things out, the film uses a framing device where a sleazy TV producer in 1996 makes a docuseries about the Manson murders. Because when you’ve already got a bloated, rambling movie, why not add an entirely new subplot nobody asked for?
This gives us endless cutaways to faux-“news footage” where kids in ‘90s grunge outfits scream about how Charlie was misunderstood, man. It’s supposed to show how Manson’s legacy infected future generations. Instead, it feels like a bad Dateline parody filmed in someone’s basement.
And then, because Van Bebber just can’t help himself, the producer gets murdered by a gang of youths clearly inspired by Manson. Subtlety, thy name is not Jim.
The Aesthetic: A Bad Acid Trip Shot Through Cheesecloth
Visually, The Manson Family looks like every frame was dipped in bong water. Colors bleed, focus drifts, and the editing suggests the editor passed out halfway through and let a raccoon finish the cut.
Sometimes it leans into faux-documentary style, sometimes it’s grindhouse gore, sometimes it’s like a high school play about Woodstock that got derailed by the drama teacher’s midlife crisis. The only consistent element is how consistently bad it looks.
The Message? There Isn’t One
Most films about Manson at least try to wrestle with the question: how could ordinary kids be seduced into unthinkable violence? What does Manson’s cult say about America in the ‘60s? The Manson Family doesn’t bother. Its “message” is essentially: “Drugs are crazy, man, and also here’s some boobs and blood.”
It’s exploitation dressed up as a true-crime docudrama, but the disguise is about as convincing as Manson’s music career.
Performances: A Commune of Awful
Nobody here can act. Susan Atkins cackles like a cartoon witch, Tex Watson looks like he’s wondering when lunch is, and Patricia Krenwinkel delivers lines as if she’s reading cue cards taped to a lava lamp.
Even Van Bebber himself shows up as Bobby Beausoleil, giving a performance that makes Tommy Wiseau look like Daniel Day-Lewis.
It’s a parade of bad wigs, bad accents, and worse improv.
Final Judgment: Charlie Don’t Surf, and He Sure as Hell Don’t Entertain
At the end of the day, The Manson Family is less a film than a case study in poor judgment. It wallows in exploitation while pretending it’s giving us raw truth. It squanders years of production just to look like a homemade snuff tape. And it proves that sometimes, the scariest thing isn’t Manson—it’s indie filmmakers with too much time and not enough talent.
Yes, the murders were horrific. Yes, the real Manson was a manipulative monster. But this movie? It’s just noise—grimy, sweaty, incoherent noise. Watching it won’t make you understand evil. It’ll just make you wonder why you didn’t rewatch Helter Skelter instead.
Closing Statement
If Charles Manson truly wanted to punish society, he could’ve skipped the whole cult thing and just forced everyone to sit through Jim Van Bebber’s The Manson Family. Life sentences would feel merciful by comparison.
