In the Blu-ray release of this doomed trilogy, all of the behind-the-scenes featurettes sound like extended apologies. They talk about how tired Jackson was, or how pulling two movies out of his ass destroyed him. There are literally shots of him looking sad while people talk about how sad everything was. And, again, this wasn't some tear-down piece on a mean-spirited blog -- they included it in the bonus features of their own movie! These filmmakers did everything short of putting a Surgeon General's warning on the film that watching it could be hazardous to your happiness.

"Thanks for buying our movie! Stay tuned after the feature to hear us explain why it was terrible!"

But if you liked The Hobbit films, that's okay too.

The mystery surrounding the money has sparked a number of conspiracy theories, and they are batshit insane, but not as insane as this man having a perfectly ordinary backstory. Castmates have alleged in interviews that Tommy had mob connections in San Francisco, and he amassed his fortune doing favors for them. Others have taken things a step further, alleging that Tommy Wiseau is actually D. B. Cooper, the famous plane hijacker who stole $200,000 then jumped out into the stormy nether below. Was he never seen again, or did his head hit 25 different trees and turn him into Tommy Wiseau? We'll let xkcd spell it out for you:

xkcd

If you still aren't convinced because $200,000 doesn't equal $6 million and the whole thing is absurd, ask yourself this: why would you be so adamant about it unless you yourself were in on the conspiracy? Checkmate, reader.

But whatever the truth may be (the Korean yo-yos, probably?), fans continue to unravel the perfect storm of madness that is The Room. Decades from now, academics will still be studying this film to learn the exact set of circumstances that allowed such uncompromised filmmaking to turn into such a spectacular mess of deranged plot, dialogue, and football tossing.

One day, he was talking to screenwriter Cory Goodman about one of his old D&D characters -- a witch hunter named Melkor. As Vin said in an interview, he "obviously" stole the name from The Silmarillion. That's the depth of this man's nerdery -- he assumes knowing all the names in the 12th most popular Tolkien book is the default human setting.

Goodman was so inspired by his tales of witch hunting and frantic 20-sided-die rolls that he went off and wrote a script that was the Hollywood equivalent of Sonic fan art. Vin, possibly a bit too close to the project to be objective, loved the idea of a film based on his childhood Dungeons & Dragons character. And so The Last Witch Hunter went into production.

Summit Entertainment

Assuming that everyone whom Vin Diesel ever played D&D with remembers his character, The Last Witch Hunter is a movie based on a pop culture reference for about six people. However, it does include some nods to the game system itself. There are a group of witches called the Hexan that are an homage to the Drow race -- those are Dark Elves in D&D if you didn't know. And here's one very, very few fans caught: One character in the movie called himself a 14th level warlock.

Did you catch it? Because Vin himself described that reference, a person in a fantasy film saying the words 14TH LEVEL WARLOCK out loud, as a subtle "wink wink to the D&D heads." If that's Vin Diesel's idea of a wink, his idea of a pickup line is drawing a question mark on his penis and blowing two air horns at you while you pee.

Summit Entertainment

But no matter how much you love clumsy references to things you sort of remember, no amount of in-jokes could save The Last Witch Hunter from something more terrifying than even witches: mediocrity. The movie faded into obscurity almost before the D&D heads had time to explain all the jokes to their Twitter followers. Still, poor reviews and lackluster box-office numbers weren't enough to discourage Vin, and plans for a sequel are already underway. He must have failed his saving throw vs. dumb idea, which is a very clever penised airhorn blow at all of the D&D fans out there.

On one of The SModcast's episodes, he retells a story he saw online about a man offering free room and board to anyone. The catch was, the tenant had to sometimes dress like a walrus. It seemed like the ramblings of a man looking to put the spark back into murder, but apparently he was chasing a memory of the time he was stranded on an island and befriended by a walrus. A stranger in a walrus costume wouldn't be as good as the real thing, but murderer boners often forgive such imperfections.

Smith rightfully looked at this story and said, "This is a freakin' horror movie right here." He spent the next hour of his podcast hashing out how this movie would go down, paving the way for what would eventually become the polarizing horror-comedy, Tusk. In it, Smith decides to go full Human Centipede and make the lonely old man an amateur surgeon who amputates his tenant's limbs and forcibly puts them into a walrus costume. And as macabre as that is, it's still more believable than that man and that walrus being "just friends."

A24

Despite the film's abysmal performance at the box office and a resounding "meh" from the critics, Smith decided that he loved the movie enough to make a whole trilogy of Canada-themed horror comedies. Whether this trio of films will make it into the pantheon of Kevin Smith cult classics or fall to the wayside like his 10 movies that weren't Clerks or Mallrats is yet to be seen. For now, let's just appreciate the fact that Kevin Smith wants to make Jaws with a moose and call it Moose Jaws. That's the act of a man who wouldn't give you a fuck if he came upon you dying fuckless in a desert.

Until a certain sexy, forbidden dance came along.

The story involves two Israeli cousins and a dance craze that they were hoping would sweep the nation -- the Lambada. Menahem Golan and Yoram Globus moved to Hollywood in the 1980s to pursue their dream of making movies. They became the Roger Corman of their generation, churning out one schlock of a movie after another, most of them about ninjas. Sadly, the Israeli dynamic duo broke up in 1989 when their production company, Cannon Films, faced bankruptcy. Golan dumped everything on his cousin and left to start 21st Century Film Corporation. This left Globus a bit miffed.

Collider

It was around this time that the Lambada -- a Brazilian dance developed to inseminate denim -- was making headlines. Not because lambada night clubs were popular, but because news producers always say yes if you pitch them a story about simulated sex. Hoping to cash in on this "phenomenon," Globus announced Lambada, a film based on the hit dry hump, lambada. This wasn't the first time he did something like this. Cannon Films made many movies in the "fads sweeping the nation" genre like breakdancing (Breakin') or rapping (Rappin'). And this lambada thing looked like it might even be bigger than the last nation-sweeping fad they based a film on, arm wrestling (Over the Top).

Golan, also recognizing the opportunity, rushed his own lambada-based film into production, starting a massive feud between the two movies. Globus secured the rights to the word, "lambada," forcing Golan to call his movie, The Forbidden Dance. Golan countered by getting the rights to the song, "Lambada," meaning the lambada movie wouldn't feature the titular song. All the while, both movies kept pushing their release dates up in a race to be released first. Because in the world of lambada, if you're not first, you're just some poor woman rubbing up against sticky, wet pants.

Cannon Films/21st Century Films

The schedules were so accelerated they had just under two weeks after shooting to get the final product out. Both movies were resounding failures. However, we learned two things from the ridiculous, stupid feud: We learned Globus' movies about dry humping lose a little bit less money than Golan's, and we learned the public was interested in approximately zero of them.