"We have found... Reptilicus!"

What gawdawful visage of Hell is this? Could it be the monstrously deplorable portion of the Trump base, born and raised up 50 million years out of time? Transmogrified and laying waste to Washington, DC and its elite allies while the world "riots with fear"? No, this beastly metaphor is simply the early 1960's Danish version of Godzilla, "Reptilicus".

Oh, what a terrible movie. It is so dreadful that the recently revived Mystery Science Theatre 3000 features it as its premiere object of ridicule.  That's very high low-brow praise! It truly approaches the apex of Cheapness, with an obvious puppet monster, a cast culled from the Copenhagen drunk tank, and such spectacular special effects as a paper cut-out of a person being consumed by the puppet:

"Hjaelp mig!!"

But back in 1964, it was a simpler time. We then-kids didn't ask for much in the way of entertainment. Heck, in my hometown of Glen Ellyn, there were only five TV channels, and one of them had objectionable educational coursework programs on it. This was counter-balanced by the local station, WGN, which provided more meaningful fare like Bozo's Circus, Garfield Goose and Combat!

In the summer,  matinees at The Glen Theatre were a way for parents to rid themselves of their brood for the afternoon for a 25 cents per admission price. For kids, it meant air-conditioned splendor - something not prevalent in sweltering homes then. And it provided a chance to bump into old schoolmates, and to be a part of a wild and essentially adult-free Lord of the Flies world. It really didn't matter much to us what the movie was, because not much attention would be paid to it.

However, "Reptilicus" was different. Lurid movie posters depicting this awful creature threatening Nordic women and destroying Copenhagen had been posted all week outside The Glen and the ancillary Main Street "coming attractions" display board. At the previous week's matinee of "The Littlest Hobo", we were all treated to this exceptional movie trailer:

Well. Restless youth had all week to anticipate this promised format of terror and mayhem. By the time Saturday finally rolled around, the wait had become unbearable. This was going to be terrific!

Except Mom told my brother and I to take our young sister along. Huh? What The?! This had never been a part of the Matinee experience! Reluctantly, we agreed (what else could we do?) and Mom gave us $1.00 for tickets and Junior Mints. I presume she spent her Alone Time guzzling gin, calling bookies or doing crossword puzzles... maybe all three!

Once we paid our quarters to the churlish ticket booth lady, we were granted access to the unworldly depths of The Glen. The lobby had a cheap art deco effect, with focus directed to the highly lit candy and popcorn counter. There was usually a line there, but Reptilicus had brought forth a sell-out crowd, so the usual mannered line had morphed into an ugly mob. Everyone was seeking treats and, more importantly, ammunition.

We got there early enough to secure decent seats near the aisle. Meanwhile the tensions of the week's wait were released as kids broke every behavioral norm during the lead-up to the film. Standing and shouting and screaming and stomping. Individual acts of performance art, and real bravura group efforts.

Bill Galligan, the owner of The Glen, appeared and grabbed a microphone, addressing the mob from the lip of the stage. He was the P.T. Barnum of Glen Ellyn. In fact, after this particular show, I think he sold the place and opened a bowling alley on Roosevelt Road. Anyway, as my brother can attest, "he announced the names of children with birthdays. Jeers and cat calls filled the room as timid youngsters ran up to claim their gifts. A steady rain of Raisenettes and M&Ms fell upon them. Galligan winced as a hard candy nailed him under the eye.

"Then without a prompt, a tall figure stood up in the front row. An older youth, perhaps 15 years old, he turned and basked in the adulation of the crowd. "The King! The King!" went the chant. He raised his arms regally above his head. The crowd went wild."

Then it was time for the serious business. Galligan paused, scowling through the dim light into the cruel maw of the unruly crowd. Kids sensed that this was the time to put down their Milk Duds projectiles, shut up, and listen.

"Now I know that you all are here to see Reptilicus and everything should be fine. But if Reptilicus happens to come out of the screen and bite you, please know that we have a nurse in the lobby who can give you First Aid."

With that admonition, a shivery swoon of fear and dread swept through the audience. Then a raucous cheer burst forth as Fred Venturoni heaved an open box of popcorn towards the screen. And it hit! "Whoooaahh!!" This was to be admired, as the screen presented as a natural target, but rare were the times when any object actually approached contact. In the meantime, Gallligan disappeared into the pandemonium and the lights went down.

Even back then, I recall the movie being tedious, taking its time laying out the exposition. Iron drillers unearth a chunk of frozen flesh. It's brought back to a Danish lab. It begins to grow, under secret and controlled conditions. This takes about half of the film! Lots of concerned Nordic people looking at the murky lab door window.

Naturally, things go terribly wrong, the chunk of growing flesh transforms into a huge creature that escapes during a thunderstorm that knocks the lab's power out. All Points Bulletin issued for Reptilicus! No one knows where this giant monster has gone! How can it have vanished?

Which leads to my favorite scene:

That is some great cinema! And at the moment when the monster reveals itself in all its fully cheesened glory, a primal roar of terror and amazement was raised, along with a cloud of Atomic Redhots, Jawbreakers, and half of all the remaining bags' worth of popcorn. And there was a scream set high above the rest of the audience - specifically from my little sister who had had enough of the whole affair and was running towards the lobby. I was so transfixed by the movie that I glanced over at my brother, shrugged and presumed she was visiting The Nurse.

After the show ended with the unsettling image of Reptilicus's blown-off claw clenching in the deep ocean floor, threatening to grow again (sadly, no sequel was ever made), I walked home alone. Where the heck had my siblings gone? "Well, everyone's a critic," I thought, or some similar musing in my young mind.

As it turned, my brother became concerned with my sister's absence. He had sacrificed watching The Greatest Monster Movie of All Time to check on her in the lobby. She was sucking on a lollipop there,  and whimpering, so he took her back home, no doubt to my Mom's surprise.

Years later, my sister and I were walking along a very crowded nighttime Spring Break boulevard sidewalk in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. Cars and vans filled with blearily-eyed revelers inched their way along the road. Many of the vans had their sliding side doors open, serenading pedestrians with the blaring sounds of mid-70's Classic Rock. As one of these vans passed us slowly, a lout emerged halfway through the open door. He looked unsteadily at us and blurted, "Heeyyyyyy.... Reptilicus!!"

We laughed a lot about this moment as we walked back to our car, barely avoiding a kid huffing some  substance by the bushes. Did he really address us? Did he really say "Reptilicus"? Was he there that summer matinee and recognized us? Was he, in fact, The King? It simply added to the legend of Reptilicus.

The Scene of the Crime