|Whenever I feel blue, I start breathing again.
||[Aug. 21st, 2006|11:53 pm]
Phrembah (a potato-like mystery)
So I couldn't very well not see Snakes on a Plane, could I? It was hilarious. Indiana Jones meets Airport '77. They even threw in some Poseidon (the collapsing handrail on the spiral staircase) for good measure. And of course, the dead pilots. Pilots in airplane movies are small dying creatures. Just like the guy you've never seen before in the landing party in the first act of a Star Trek episode. Dead meat from the git-go. No way 'round it.
I loved the python eating the sniffy licky little lap weasel. There is a God after all. And He's partial to pythons. I guessed as much.
But the movie hasn't done spectacularly at the box office. About $15 million opening weekend. That's weird. How can America not rush to the theater to see a movie called Snakes on a Plane? You'd think that would be like a pizza-flavored double decaf latte. There would be no choice involved; you would simply have to have it and have it right fucking now ! ! !
And the pirates thing just keeps packing them in. The first week that thing was here, you had to stand in line twice to see it. They were double-checking tickets because showings were selling out. I went and traded mine in for a different movie. I don't stand in line to see movies anymore. Or share armrests with fat smelly strangers. They don't make movies that good anymore.
. . .
Whoa, bed time!