Black Snake Moan
Seattle Sound film review

Director Craig Brewer makes high-ideal exploitation films, using the syntax of 70s-era drive-in flicks to redeem his low-caste characters. But while Hustle and Flow was a feel-good, fist-pumping tale of relative redemption, Black Snake Moan's ratio of storyline to sleaze means more thrills but less heart. Brewer tries to have it both ways, crafting a sympathetic portrait of a sex addict while depicting her half-naked in tight panties, covered in mud, blood and bruises and chained to a radiator. That's Christina "That Darn Cat" Ricci, a half-shirt festooned with guns and flags as accessory, flipping the bird to anyone who questions her career choices. Both dare the audience not to be aroused by this poor, suffering wretch, so when a troubled farmer and former bluesman played by Samuel L. Jackson nurses her back to health against her will, his temptation to take advantage is all the more palpable. It's another career-topper for Jackson, whose face betrays an inner struggle with earthly impulses even as he is steadfast to God, as badass as ever but never more righteous. Still, there's a thick coat of white trash fetishism that's hard to wipe off Black Snake Moan, making it far more effective as hillbilly grindhouse fare than thoughtful drama. Fred Beldin, 2-2007