Sometimes I wonder how a movie gets made. If Craig Brewer had written Black Snake Moan 30 years ago, it would’ve been made on a miniscule budget, with a no name cast, and probably achieved cult status on the drive-in circuit.
Instead, like Grindhouse and Snakes On A Plane, a studio has poured millions into what is essentially a self-aware exploitation or B-movie.
The film is a true oddity, with A-list actors all fired up in service of brazen pulp. Christine Ricci is Rae, a white trash nympho whose man Ronnie, played by Justin Timberlake, is about to ship out to Iraq, despite his nervous condition. As soon as he’s out the door, Rae is satisfying her uncontrollable desires with an African-American pimp. One fateful day she is bashed and left for dead outside the home of Lazarus.
Played with white of eye and foam on the lips by Samuel L. Jackson, Lazarus is a bluesman and farmer on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Rather than take Rae to hospital, Lazarus takes her in. Because she’s wandering feverishly, he chains her to the radiator. However when she’s recovers, Lazarus continues her captivity because she needs moral correction. As you do.
Before you can say Stockholm Syndrome, a bizarre bond forms of this bondage. This film is as nutty as a semi-trailer loaded with Snickers bars ...
The title Black Snake Moan apparently refers to depression and if you believe that, I own a large bridge in Sydney you might like to buy.
Unlike Craig Brewer’s wonderful film Hustle & Flow, Black Snake Moan loses its way. It’s unclear what he wants us to feel. The film is played with passionate conviction from its cast but this is a soap opera on crack.
I, like those around me, were laughing at the most dramatic moments. I honestly don’t know whether we were meant to.
As a minor walk on the weird side, I’m giving this one 2 1/2 stars. Black Snake Moan is in cinemas August 2nd.
