Obviously, when you are dealing with a whackadoo cultural phenommenon like Snakes On A Plane, which crushed its way into the limelight on the strengths of a jarringly literal title, a few well placed used of the word "motherfucker," and the psychosis of we bloggers, when you near the actual realization, you begin to realize: you are set up for an epic fall.
Not that it should dissuade anyone from their obsession. But we all know that SOaP could only end in one of three ways:
- A total and unexpected redemption of cinematic glory.
- A total return on the investment in that a certain lovable crapulence is winningly achieved.
Number three is a wide, yawning chasm into which many a hoped-for awesomely bad movie ends up crashing. It's doubtful that number one can be achieved or that anyone involved even really attempted. So, then, the half-court shot represented by number two. Hitting that mark of camp and ridiculousness and over-the-top nonsense squah in the nutsack.
So far, so good! From eminently trustable sources...
Huddle formation, hissy fans!
(I feel like I can promise this: it will at the very least be more enjoyable than that movie where Veronica Mars and Boone from Lost accidentally upload their Snow Patrol MP3's to some dead guys FTP and end up unleashing an angry, yelly version of the Blue Man Group from the interwebs.)