If one thing should be said about Snakes on a Plane, it’s that it lived up to the main thrust of the hype: There were snakes, and they were on a plane. But beyond that, well…
The NYTimes is reporting that Snakes on a Plane is a box office disappointment, which doesn’t surprise me. It’s an R-rated B-horror movie. We can all titter about the movie’s stupid name and premise, but how many people will commit $10 and 90 minutes just to hear Samuel L. Jackson deliver his money phrase in context, with Shakespearean-like intonation:
“Enough is enough! I have had it with these muthafuckin’ snakes on this muthafuckin’ plane!”
The main problem with Snakes is that it’s campy, with a throw-away plot and stereotypical characters (the flight crew has a sexist pilot, a slutty stewardess, a flaming flight attendant) but not consistently campy. It tries to tug your heart strings, to inspire, to make us care.
The first half-hour is agonizing, but necessary in creating a plausible scenario where multiple species of poisonous snakes would be not only on a plane, but attacking the passengers, seemingly always on the face or genitals. When the action really gets going, it’s violent and gory and sort of kills the fun. How can we laugh at snakes on a plane when they’re horrifically killing everyone on it?
The worst part of the movie was either the opening montage of hardbodies on the beach (I almost left) or repeated camera shots from the “snake” perspective.
Still, it was purposely a cheesy horror that reminded me of my beloved zombie genre: The unexpected, absurd menace… the frenzied scrambling and sudden demises… the heroes that step up to face the mounting crises. I’m glad it lived up to its billing, if not its hype. But I will only see the sequel if it’s called what SLJ has suggested: Mo’ Muthafuckin’ Snakes on Mo’ Muthafuckin’ Planes.
