Snakes on a PlaneStarring: Samuel L. Jackson, muthafucka!
Written by: John Heffernan and Sebastian Gutierrez
Directed by: David R. Ellis
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*Caution: Many spoilers, primarily about what body parts are eaten and/or bitten by snakes. Also, just so you know, there is a happy ending. Try to act surprised.
It was a Friday night, a tad chilly for August, when five friends and I gathered to see it. After a hearty, pseudo-French spread of Au Bon Pain sandwiches and Diet Pepsi, we made our trek across the spooky wasteland of the Boston Fens, dodging broken glass, goose excrement, and stoned Northeastern co-eds. Fenway was aglow that night with the fated Red Sox/Yankees double-header, and as we passed onto Yawkey Way we were greeted with drunken, heraldic cries of "Go Sox!" and "Yankees Suck!"
But we were not here to deride the Yankees with venomous, Guinness-soaked tongues. No, our pilgrimage led us instead to the AMC Fenway theater, the air infused with popcorn butter and throbbing anticipation. Ticket stubs in hand, we walked to our screen.
We could hear them before we entered. The din of a determined mob, fueled by adrenaline and vodka hidden in Dasani bottles. They hooted, they threw popcorn, they laughed and cheered and hissed and shouted vile obscenities. But over it all, we could hear the slow, but powerful chant, a raging plea for what we had all come here to witness:
Snakes! Snakes! Snakes! Snakes!
So began my experience with Snakes on a Plane, the most anticipated movie of the summer, the darling of film bloggers and MySpace users everywhere, and the most entertaining bit of trash I've seen in a very, very long time.
So here's the "plot," as it is: Surfer Dude catches evil Asian Mobster (you can tell he's evil by the flashy white suit coat) killing a prosecutor in Hawaii. Asian Mobster puts out a hit on Surfer Dude, who is narrowly rescued from a Death Squad by Samuel L. Jackson. Samuel L. puts Surfer Dude on a plane to L.A. so Surfer Dude can testify against Asian Mobster and put Asian Mobster away for good. What Samuel L. doesn't know is that Asian Mobster has put a whole bunch of poisonous snakes on Surfer Dude's plane and has sprayed the Aloha leis with this pheromone that will make the snakes extra super-horny and go crazy and kill everyone. Plane takes off, snakes are released by an explosive, snakes... get extra super-horny and go crazy and kill everyone.
And there ya go.
But did you really want to know the plot of Snakes on a Plane? Of course not! All you want to know is how much blood, oozing pus, raunchy plane sex and hilarious one-liners David Ellis could fit into a two-hour movie. The answer is, um, a lot. Jesus, a lot. I mean the first two people killed are a couple smoking pot and joining the mile-high club in the bathroom. The snake bites the girl's naked breast. There's blood spurting everywhere. Later, another snake castrates a man. And another eats the Snobby British Passenger's head. And the audience roars in appreciation.
Because, of course, they had to die.
Samuel L., obviously, is the best thing in it. He becomes almost a parody of himself, a hard-assed, seasoned FBI agent. No non-sense around Samuel L., or he'll tear you a new one. Two new ones if you really piss him off. He's joined by ER-alum Julianna Margulies as Spunky Stewardess (the other flight attendant I've code named Slutty Stewardess), David Koechner as Horndog Pilot, and the inimitable Kenan Thompson as Fat Passenger with Courage. All are wonderfully bad, and I'm pretty sure they all meant to be. It's a return to those golden days of B-Movie Hollywood, a time of large, radioactive ants and UFOs made out of pie plates. Lines are delivered with complete dead-pan- one of my favorite moments has Horndog Pilot talking about keeping the plane from "going down faster than a Thai hooker." And Samuel L.'s inspirational speeches, as well as Surfer Dude and Fat Passenger's emergence as heroes are hysterically earnest, with all tongues placed squarely in cheek.
In the end, though, this film must be watched with an audience. Preferably a drunken audience, with lots of frat boys and people who aren't above hissing at pivotal moments, and hollering "Muthafucka!" every time Samuel L. appears on the screen. Because Snakes on a Plane isn't a movie; it's an event. It reminds us that in the end, movies are a communal experience- they're about having a good time with friends and strangers alike.
In fact, the worse the movie got, the louder we chanted. And the better we liked it.
So, darlings, hold your breath, pay that wretched $10 the box offices are gouging you out of nowadays, and see Snakes on a Plane. On a weekend. At night. With a large audience, in a multiplex, with the good stadium seating and those handy cupholders. And when the time comes, scatter your inhibitions to the wind, and chant along with the others for the one thing that in your primitive lizard brain you know you want to see:
Snakes, snakes, snakes.....
