Black Snake Moan

In Hustle and Flow, director Craig Brewer proved to America that it truly was “hard out here for a pimp.” Now with his sophomore feature Black Snake Moan, Brewer proves an even more staggering fact: it’s hard out here for the enlisted husband of a nymphomaniac. And she’s not just any nymphomaniac—but Christina Ricci, in her Prozac Nation-mode of over-the-top animalistic hysteria. Lucky for her, a bible-thumping bluesman—Samuel L. Jackson—fresh off a bitter divorce, takes her under his protective wing, while bound and determined to lead her on a path to redemption. His method of care-giving involves chaining the abused prostitute to a radiator, while soulfully singing the kind of hard-boiled blues that holds the power to put its listeners into a hypnotically brooding trance.

I, however, was partaking in a very different type of trance while watching Black Snake Moan, and it was one of purely amused befuddlement. This is one weird movie. So weird, in fact, that the filmmaker’s basic artistic goals remain sketchy. Is this an outrageously off-the-wall melodrama, an abundantly campy satire, or a cinematic illustration of the blues? I’d like to argue that it’s a hodge-podge of all three, but to what end? Raucous laughter blared through the entirety of the packed screening I attended of the film, but what was the audience laughing at? Sure, there a few choice one-liners, such as when Ricci awakens—after having been beaten unconscious—and finds herself chained in a stranger’s house. The stranger, Jackson, points to the chain while uttering the deadpan quip, “I’ze gonna tell you ‘bout that.” But the film’s content and plot arc are so overtly dramatic and self-righteous, that Brewer seems to want the audience to take this spectacle seriously. And if the film is indeed intended to be serious, then it’s seriously one of the most misogynistic films in recent memory.

Consider the story of Ricci’s husband, played by Justin Timberlake, who once again proves—as he did earlier this year in Alpha Dog—that he truly is a solid actor. After balancing machismo with self-loathing in Dog, Timberlake exudes vulnerability as Ronnie, an army soldier plagued with violent anxiety. He has reason to be anxious, considering that the instant he’s off to war, his wife Rae—Ricci—searches for her sexual fix in the hands of pimp Tehronne. Yet when she falls under the guidance of Jackson, whose character happens to be named Lazarus, the story doesn’t become about her journey toward being unchained from her disease. It becomes about her acquiring a different chain—that which binds her in submissive loyalty to her husband, who exerts homicidal tendencies once he discovers his wife’s been cheating. In his own way, Ronnie’s disorder is no more destructive than that of Rae, and yet it is the woman who is branded the sinner, and assigned to cater to her husband’s needs. The film’s ultimate hypocrisy is how it offers this ‘redemptive’ message, while objectifying Rae as a sex symbol, dressing her in an outfit so revealing, she might as well not be wearing clothes at all. It takes hours for the kindly Lazarus to wipe the blood from her bruised face, and several days to offer her a friggin’ dress!

And yet, Moan is so utterly preposterous that it becomes increasingly difficult to take seriously. Each scene unfolds with all the subtlety of a piano player pounding the same three keys until the ivory begins to crumble. Each assigned emotion is played with an exclamation point, giving the entire production a heightened, cartoon-like tone. Whenever two characters have a confrontation that holds interesting dramatic weight, Brewer loses his nerve, and resorts to having the “really bad” character provoke the “really good” character into a brawl. This technique is never more hilariously realized as when Rae encounters her unsupportive mother in a supermarket, and ends up beating her with loafs of bread. There’s also some uproarious dialogue along the lines of “that girl gonna be on your d—k like stink on s—t.”

This is all tremendously entertaining, and worthy of more genuine laughter than anything in Jackson’s other Snake movie. It also produces an infinite number of groans, yet they never erupt out of a bored vacuum. They instead are produced by astonished audience members reeling from the silly, overwrought, offensive sight before their eyes. Black Snake Moan is the kind of film that can’t be enjoyed through rational thought. It’s tailor-made to become an instant classic—in the realm of cinematic drinking games. Take a shot every time you see Ricci’s torso, and you’re guaranteed to have a plastered evening!

Rating: **1/2 (out of *****)