For this recap, we're gonna scientifically rate this year's line-up with a litmus test that measures the amount of "Nerd Funk" generated by the captive audience during each screening. Now, Nerd Funk is combination of B.O., expelled intestinal methane, and a palpable sense of audience desperation. In other words: This is really gonna stink.

And without further ado, I present The Nerd-Funk-O-Meter [...rhymes with thermometer.]

Now let's get to it.

So, when the familiar Superman theme warbled to life, off pitch and not quite in synch, officially kicking off B-Fest 2006, the crowd erupted in cheers. And then we proceeded to throw up while viewing Superman's obnoxious and amoral dating "techniques." Meanwhile, when Superman isn't doing repeated Kryptonian mind-wipes on his girlfriend (-- seriously, I'll bet poor Lois can't even remember her piano lessons anymore), he's promoting world peace by jettisoning Earth's entire stockpile of nuclear weapons into the sun -- and I don't even want to fathom the resulting sunspot activity of that little exercise. Anyways, Lex Luthor, sadly minus his trusty sidekick, Otis, launches a piece of chicken fat and a lock of Superman's hair into the sun, resulting in the formation of a big-haired and beefy heavy-metal reject called Nuclear Man. Then they talk and they talk, and when they eventually fight Supes is knocked for a loop by a pair of deadly Lee press-on nails. Fortunately, he's saved by the timely intervention of a green glow-stick and kicks Nuclear Man's ass, leaving the audience stupefied as we wonder why Muriel Hemingway didn't suffocate in outer space, and two, Why she didn't explosively decompress once she left atmosphere -- or burn up on reentry if we're gonna get technical.

Rumor has it that Christopher Reeve signed on to wear the jammies for this one only if Golan-n-Globus would finance another project he was working on. Rumor also has it that this thing was heavily edited down to 85 minutes, but, believe me, it was long enough. Also of note, the leftover footage was to serve as a basis for a Superman V, but the film tanked so bad it was scrapped. Truly awful, and the most cheers were during the opening credits. All hail the Hack-man. I mean, How bad does a movie have to be if Ned Beatty says "No thanks."

And yes, Superman really is a dick!

The Nerd Funk-O-Meter Says:

Man. I hope Street Smarts was worth this.

Creature from the Black Lagoon

(In True Stereoscopic 3-D!)

From Superman and Lois Lane, to Kong and Fay, to Dolly Parton and Sylvester Stallone, to this film, inter-species romance was a main theme at this year's B-Fest. Hell, you can't blame the Creature; who wouldn't lust after Julie Adams -- hubba-hubba, bubba. By gosh, she sure is purty. (Please pardon my tongue wagging.) But the affair just wasn't meant to be. He has gills; she needs air; and the monster is sent to a watery grave due to some non-comic code approved biological urges.

When the line-up for this year's B-Fest was announced, I tried to drum up some enthusiasm about seeing this film on the big screen, commenting on The BMMB that the only thing that could make it better would be to see it in 3-D. Then, bingo-bongo, came the announcement that it was. I had nothing to do with that decision, I'm sure, but I'll still take the credit for it.

You're welcome, everybody.

And it was with much excitement that I dawned the tinted glasses when the film started. As it played, I was doing better than most of the folks around me, because I was the only one not wearing regular glasses. All during the film, a steady stream of people were seen groping out of the theater, cross-eyed, and grasping at the bridges of their noses. When the 3-D effect worked, the results were spectacular and incredible to behold. (It worked the best during shots of the scientists lounging around the boat.) When it didn't, which was about fifty-percent of the time, the result was a really bad headache -- compounded by the volume levels of Herman Stein's ear-shattering score that had us ducking for other reasons.

Still worth every second, though.

As our titular hero, Sir Worthless, lounges on a fallen tree, a damsel in distress is kidnapped by a couple of Snidely Whiplash enthusiasts and carry her off in a wheelchair. (Don't ask.) The hero then draws his sword and tries to mount his bike to give chase -- only he can't manage to mount it, no matter how hard he tries. And he tries. A lot. The villains get away and the hero sulks. The end.

What the -- What the hell? Wow. Was it just me, or were the shorts this year a little more messed up than usual? You know, in a Kryptonian mind-wipe kinda way? Truthfully, I remember very little about them, and what I do scares the shit out of me. The best part of this early Ken Russell effort was the lingering 3-D effect when The BMMB's very own Hecubus rolled across the stage to simulate the bad guy -- a similar trick he pulled doing Superman IV. Great job, Hec. 

Beyond that, batten the hatches on the shorts, folks, 'cuz they only get odder from here. 

When a giant, and sometimes not so giant, lizard, who may or may not breathe fire, takes a bite out of the Big Apple, only the combined forces of the most incompetent band of schlubs, with a helpful assist from Jean Reno, manage to take the lizard down by borrowing heavily from other films like Carnosaur (-- and how low and desperate is that?) with the maximum amount of property damage. Man, 1998 was a bad year for the Chrysler Building, am I right?

I've only walked out on one movie in my life, and this one is it. I didn't even demand my money back, I just wanted to get out of the theater when I first saw it. It was that bad. Well, my cinematic manhood was called into question, so I went back, dragging the accuser along with me in a headlock -- if I had to suffer, he had to suffer -- and sat through the whole thing. It didn't get any better then, and it didn't get any better at B-Fest despite the crowd's unmerciful heckling (I especially appreciated Santo's military hardware explanations on the difference between laser-guided missiles and heat-seeking missiles.) And that's why I gladly joined in the chant of "Eat them!" in reference to the entire cast.

Oy! I hate this movie. And the sad thing is, up until the aftermath of Deanzilla's initial rampage on New York, this was shaping up to be not half-bad as far as giant monsters on the loose movies go, and then the film proceeds to piss all over itself with a bad cast, insipid characters, bad dialogue, bad French jokes, bad jokes period, and an overall sense of general ineptness that had me pining for the days of the Calico, Captain Majors, Dr. Quinn and Godzuki ... I know the point has been beaten to death that this is more of a remake of The Beast from 20000 Fathoms than any Godzilla movie, but I honestly don't know if Disastrous Dean Deviln and Roland "It's the End of the World" Emmerich were that dumb to know the difference or too arrogant to think we'd notice.

Nothing. Not even close. And I was really pulling for one of the autographed copies of the B-Fest promotional posters. Tip of the mug to B-Fest regular and artist Mitch O'Connell. This year's design was the best one yet, my friend.

And now that I'm thinking about it, Where the hell is Slide-Whistle-Guy?

The Wizard of Speed and Time

(Never Runs Out of Gas.)

He is the Wizard of Speed and Time, and he's got magic to make you shine. Wise to the wonders step into the blah, blah, blah ... Whatever. I don't care because this guy is starting to really creep me out. Sure he's cute, with the stomping and the running, with his darling little acolytes that storm the stage to do his bidding and all, but look a little closer -- at the cold eyes, and that lifeless, demonic grin ... Oh, yeah, he's plotting to kill us all while we sleep. 

So keep your eyes open, folks. And never sleep again. Don't make me say "I told you so."

The Nerd Funk-O-Meter Says:

Followed by Emit dna Deeps fo Draziw Eht.

Plan 9 from Outer Space

(Beware of Future Paper Plates in Your Future.)

Alright, for the last damn time, we're the gas can and you're the ball! Can't your stupid, stupid minds grasp a simple, basic concept like Solarmanite?

Yeah, me neither.

When the clock strikes twelve, that means it's time for Criswell and the Ed Wood irregulars and this strange tale of longing and acceptance for the Angora freak inside of all of us, hidden and thinly disguised as a supernatural thriller about grave-robbers from outer space. Also during the midnight hour, the audience participation at B-Fest reaches its zenith with this film. And I honestly think the highlight of the marathon this year was getting brained in the eye by a brick of plates stuck together. Congrats, B-Fest, you finally drew blood.

I really, really wish I knew what kept me in the theater for this thing. I am truly sick of this film, but I'm hooked on the chaos. I have fond memories of B-Fest 2002, my first Fest, and all the skits that went on during the screening of this movie. The fire-arm safety lecture, the piggy-back Bela/Not Bela, the wicker/rattan wars, and the Idiot's Guide to Solarmanite. Most of those skits are gone, but still I remain. Why? 

No, I'm asking you.

The Nerd Funk-O-Meter Says:

Truth be told, most of that is just Tor Johnson's natural "ambiance."

( And does anybody have a band-aid? )