Deus Ex Machina

I'm tired of all these motherfucking snakes on this motherfucking plane.- Samuel L. Jackson

The cast was all there - the unnaturally beautiful blonde girl who doesn't realize she's hot. The drunk frat boy. Two surly wannabe white gangstas in sideways baseball caps. Prostitots (you know, the preteen little ho's in training). A row full of computer geeks. Another row full of high school kids. And there, front and center, a father and his seven year old son. We were dug in and armed to the teeth with Twizzlers and popcorn and soda and beer, yeah one of the guys I work with actually was able to sneak some in. It was opening night for the most highly anticipated movie of the summer: Snakes on a Plane.

The trailers were well picked: Beer Fest, a few thrillers, Tenacious D the Movie, something else that looked hilarious but I've forgotten... we all forgot the trailers as soon as the logo popped up on the screen. The room went apeshit. Popcorn flew into the air like dirt from an explosion, and fifty voices screamed "Snakes on a Plane, motherfucker!" It was on.
The girls flinched as the Chinese man beat the shit out of the prosecutor. They held their breaths as the Chinese Mob broke into that guy's apartment - then Samuel L. Jackson came on the screen, and the theater filled with that rushing water sound of vaginas wetting in unison. I put my feet on the back of the seat in front of me in case any puddles washed over the floor.

A plot twist, an interrogation, a cut scene... and then the first snake. The women watched in horror as the snake did what randy snakes do to buxom female extras in horror flicks. My eyes bounced from supple bosom to the father and seven year old son. Father was faking prudish offense; son's breathing had stopped as his pupils dilated. The drunk frat boy yelled; I yelled; we all yelled, for more, more, more! The computer geeks screamed Hardcore! and one of them excused himself to the bathroom. It was the first snake attack of the movie; everyone with illicit booze downed a long, comforting swallow.

The rest of the movie played out as one would expect: the normal cast of character actors died in sadistically pleasant ways - snakebites, mainly - as Jackson ran back and forth with all manner of weapons. The overtly gay steward dodged a cobra; and a coral snake; and more snakes. The fat, elderly, and unimportant-looking actors didn't fare so well. At every death, we cheered; at every strike, we drank. Gay Steward put a snake in a microwave; we chanted "Two More Minutes!" It was very Rocky Horror, only we were mocking and cheering and heckling an angry black man beset by snakes on a plane.

Somewhere between the fat Hawaiian woman getting a snake up her dress and the point where the hypochondriac gets smashed by a runaway drink cart, the father and son got up and ran out of the theater. It's like they couldn't take buxom breasts, an anaconda eating a businessman, Samuel L. Jackson going off on tirades, or the stress of watching two dozen overpaid actors shoot their serious-drama careers in the face. We loved it; there were standing ovations every time any character used the phrase "snakes on a plane". When the FBI raided the rare snake guy's ranch, there arose the un-orchestrated call "snakes in a barn!" Possible sequel, that is.

Every cheap thrill moment - snakes attacking the camera from out of nowhere - the Prostitots shrieked. They squirmed, and then looked accusatorily back and forth as if to suggest that the noise and the motion had come from one of their twelve year old friends and not themselves. Every gratuitous death, the guys cheered. Popcorn flew at inappropriate times. People stepped on the actors' lines, heckling the screen, screaming what they thought were spoilers - and they were right more often than not. These only added to the experience. They were - we were - movie hooligans turned loose with alcohol and sticky candy and the summer's worst movie on the screen... and it was beautiful.

See that movie. It's going to be huge - a cult movie forged in the mainstream. And that's good for everyone. And while you're there, check the back row, I might be there, naked under a trench coat.