And the fateful day has arrived at last! After months of coma-inducing media enthrallment and inexhaustible hype, here I sit, counting the hours, tickets bought and Friday evening pre-planned for maximum enjoyment of the true cinematic Ulysses that will be Snakes On A Plane. For a devout apostle (such as myself) of really fucking awful creature movies, this event represents a second coming, the culmination of months, no, years spent in wheezing anticipation of new levels of slithery atrociousness. Hollywood’s latest bastard child of tongue-in-cheek marketing and blogosphere hysteria (or just Anaconda and Con Air) will, in my questionably lucid opinion, be nothing short of spectacular. And, for contextual record, I have rented and watched Anacondas: The Hunt for the Blood Orchid and King Cobra at least 10 times. Bring on the motherfucking snakes!
UPDATE: It was all that I hoped and more. The Rocky Horror of monster films, if you will. Flying plastic snakes hitting the screen, moviegoers in pilot uniforms with pythons wrapped around their necks, and the inestimable joy that is stockpiles of pissed-off CGI snakes attacking a commercial airliner. I laughed, I cried, I explained to a bewildered boyfriend why the entire theater went batshit insane every time Sam Jackson’s face filled the screen. Get thee to Snakes!