The day that has been so eagerly awaited by legions of fanboys, onlookers, gawkers, curios, Internet trolls and aficionados of the word "motherfuckin'" for the better part of a year.
It has spawned countless websites, contests, and fans. Songs have been written about it. Reams and reams of press have been given to it. Joke after joke after punchline after joke about it have made it that much more immediate. Homemade trailers, hilarious fake posters, massive fan campaigning to get a crucial addition made to the script.
All this, because a film came along that finally answered Shakespeare's famous posit: "What's in a name?"
The answer? Everything, that's what's in a motherfuckin' name.
Tomorrow, in all its hyped-for-no-real-reason glory, Snakes on a Plane finally opens in theaters across America.
I will never, never, never forget that day. Goofing off, as usual. Scouring website after website, page after page, link after link...until I saw it. The funniest thing I had read in a looong time:
"...Snakes on a Plane is perhaps the greatest movie title since Leprechaun in the Hood. The title lays out exactly what you're getting: There's a plane and there are snakes on it. As [star Saumel L.] Jackson himself puts it, "You either want to see that, or you don't."
"Whether or not Snakes on a Plane receives critical acclaim on the level of Brokeback Mountain is a moot point. Brokeback Mountain may have gay cowboys, but Snakes on a Plane has snakes. And a plane."
I couldn't wrap my head around it. Was this real? When did this happen? Who decided that this was something worth going ahead and producing? And was there any way this wasn't the stupidest movie of all time?
And yet, what was it that brought this on? Not some brave new dramatic piece, or a bold animation experiment that came out of left-field, or even one of those really big-budget jobs where the guy blows everything up and defeats the bad guy and rescues the president and gets the girl with the really big boobs. Not a thinking man's piece. Not even a lowest-common denominator piece.
The film and its cult say a lot about us as a culture. Some millions of dollars were poured into its creation and promotion. Individuals around the world poured immeasurable creative energy into goofy signs and doctored photos poking fun at the film and its foul-mouthed star. Dollars that could've been given to research the treatment of awful diseases; energy that could've been used to create beautiful works of art; time that could've been better-spent doing just about anything.
No, what got people excited was nothing more than big dumb fun. Four-hundred snakes unleashed on a plane, and the guy who played Ordell Robbie is the only person who can get things under control.
It's so stupid. So insulting. So offensively cliché. Part of me wants to go on a lengthy rant about what a low opinion movie executives and producers must have of the American public.
And yet, that part of me chooses to stay silent, at least for now.
It's going to be the worst film of all time, this much we know for sure. So what?
In an age where jobs people spent years clawing their up to way are being shipped off to other countries, where the government has started a war it has no means of finishing, where terrorists may lurk around every corner and where gas prices are through the roof and where the divide between rich and poor is getting wider every single day, can we really concern ourselves with the artistic merit of Snakes on a Plane? More importantly, should we?
Do with it what you will. Sadly, snakes aren't the worst thing conceivable on a plane these days anyway. And I am sick and tired of these motherfuckin' hassles in our motherfuckin' lives.