The last time I attended a film’s opening night in Times Square was for Freddy’s Dead: The Final Nightmare. What I remember most was the five armed security guards lined up under the screen. They seemed ready to start randomly firing into the crowd at the first sign of trouble. Judging from the audience, I figured I’d be lucky to enjoy a few seconds of the 3-D sequence before getting caught in friendly fire.

Of course, that was back when Mayor Dinkins was overseeing the fall of New York City. Now, I’m attending the first midnight screening of Snakes On A Plane in what’s considered to be the new Times Square. The theater itself is built on a lot that once hosted a particularly grim porn palace. The audience is wholesome and harmless. There’s no need for armed guards tonight, despite a definite buzz of excitement.

A real exploitation fan would dismiss the Snakes hoopla as corporate kitsch—but there’s this airplane flying over Manhattan trailing a big banner that says Snakes On A Plane, the film’s soundtrack is pretty good and outside the theater tonight, another film studio has hired nubile gals wrapped up in chains to hand out posters for Black Snake Moan, which is the next picture from Snakes star Samuel L. Jackson. 

Say what you will about the buzz, but Snakes On A Plane has become a marketing moment that’ll never again happen so naturally. So I’m attending even with expectations that there’ll be a lot of talking and snide remarks during the movie. That’s okay. Modern hipsters really needed this one.

They came out tonight, too. I don’t want to stare, but I’m very much aware of the five young white guys behind me who all seem to be wearing big black helmets. There’s also a row of giggly dames just ahead of me, indicating a femme demographic that’ll probably surprise the studio. 

The film starts, and there’s a lot of hissing. People will keep that up throughout the film. There will also be plenty of cheers every time  Jackson gets a good line, plus lots of forced laughter so that everybody else in the audience knows that their seatmates are hip to the schlock. 

Snakes On A Plane, incidentally, sucks. The audience tries to keep up their enthusiasm, but it’s a losing battle. The guys behind me give up pretty early. I’m thinking that it would have been kind of fun to keep hearing their lame gags—especially since all their pre-film jokes were based on “Star Trek” (and, in one übergeek moment, the short-lived parody, “Quark.”) 

During an early sex scene, one of them shouted out, “He’s firing his laser!” That’s more classically moronic than anything in Snakes On A Plane. 

The gaggle of girls end up spending most of the movie checking their text messages, probably once again reminded why bad movies are usually for the boys. The ending kind of gets everyone going again, but that’s just because they finally get to hear Jackson say, “I’ve had it with these motherfuckin’ snakes on this motherfuckin’ plane!” 

They paid money to hear it, yet they have to shout along with the line. I’ve never understood that about rock concerts, either.

The producers wisely run a funny music video over the credits, and that’s more entertaining than the actual  film. And as it turns out, what I thought were helmets turned out to be big fake Afros on the heads of the guys behind me. They’re also wearing black suits. It takes me a while before I realize they’re dressed as Jackson’s character in Pulp Fiction. They didn’t bother with blackface, which was probably a smart move. Times Square is never going to be that safe.