They just don’t make exploitation films like they used to. Some may claim that is good, but not me. Sometime during the early ‘90s, when the video market became a virtual guarantee of profit for an independent studio, distributors began releasing their seedy underbelly directly to video and removed the pictures entirely from the theater circuit. Now, I’m not one to bemoan the loss of the past, but this change let to significant differences in the ways that films were made and the ways that viewers watch, at least in the realm of the exploitation cheapie. “B” productions of today are much lazier than they used to be, and strictly go for the lowest common denominator, rather than using a lurid storyline to show young stars in an arena with an artistic flair. If a movie of this nature is even to be released in the theaters at all, it must have big stars and even then, low budget as it may be, is labeled a risk that is doomed to a short stay in circulation. This is Black Snake Moan, a big new entry of modern exploitation: hot blues and hot sex in rural Tennessee. Does it give a favorable impression of the South? No. Is it politically correct in any way? God, no. Is it unabashedly entertaining? Hell yes, it is.
Christina Ricci plays trashy nympho Rae who, as a result of her history of abuse, is reduced to writhing orgasmic fits if she can’t get that one thing she needs. After her boyfriend Ronnie (Justin Timberlake) volunteers for war, Rae runs wild, satisfying her addiction with whatever she can find, including Ronnie’s best friend, but this is her big mistake. Turns out that he’s a real peach, as he beats her senseless after having his way with her drugged addled body before leaving her in the road to die. The next morning, Laz (Samuel Jackson), a bluesman and farmer, spots the barely alive Rae in the dirt. While he doesn’t know her, he only has one choice: to take her to his house and nurse her back to health. There is no way that he could call the sheriff to say “I just found her.” This just won’t cut it. He tries his best to make her well, but her sleepwalking and fever dreams make it difficult for Laz to keep tabs on her. He can’t have her running into the woods so, when reason has no effect, Laz only sees one solution.
That Samuel Jackson chains Christina Ricci to the radiator should come as a surprise to nobody but when Rae, finally lucid, stands to find herself bound, it is a surprisingly funny image. It is a slap in the face to viewers that this movie isn’t nice, and it’s isn’t going to start playing nice any time soon. Rae, understandably, freaks out, milking the melodrama for all that it’s worth, but eventually accepts her cage (at this point, I was wondering what Boxing Helena would have been like had it starred Sydney Poitier), and now all the Southern Gothic histrionics can begin. Rae tries to seduce her way to freedom over and over again but Laz, a stronger man than I, has agreed to “suffer her” and changes his mission from fixing her body to fixing her soul. Rae, of course, has expressed no interest in being fixed, but that is of no consequence to Laz, who has his own axe to grind. See, his wife just left him for his brother and, in combination with Rae’s history of incest, they’re a pretty picture of exploitation cinema. Laz’s true hope is that, in fixing Rae’s soul, he’ll fix his own. Any kind of perverted sense of generosity is stripped away and we’re left with a selfish act; Rae as his object of desire, even if that desire is ostensibly non-sexual. Plus, his choice of method may say quite a bit about why his wife might have left him, so he might have wanted to think a little on that along the way. Now, it’s a race for redemption. Laz isn’t coming to church and the preacher’s stopping by to find out why. Plus, Ronnie’s back in town, and I don’t think this small town, military trained white boy will take kindly to his girlfriend in her panties chained to a radiator in a black man’s house.
What could have simply been an amusingly lurid but forgettable plotline becomes something more in the expert hands of those involved. Rae could have been the shallow and vapid “hooker with a heart of gold” but, at every moment, Christina Ricci plays the part with conviction and, as the film goes on, adds subtlety. At the climax of her story, there is actual emotional impact (a true rarity, especially in this kind of film). Less subtle, though equally enjoyable, is Samuel Jackson’s Laz. He channels the spirit from his Pulp Fiction days and, even if derivative, it’s the best thing he’s done in years. The transitions well, and he does a great job portraying the angry, mixed up soul of the bluesman. On top of it all, surprised as I am to write this, Justin Timberlake does a really good job as Ronnie. While his screen time is limited, his character is integral to the story and he actually pulls it off. Ronnie is the one person in Rae’s life who actually cares; she feels this and, at least toward him, reacts positively. He is a catalyst for her deep humanity, and she demonstrates this as the only person capable or willing to help Ronnie through his own crippling problems. Ronnie needs Rae as much as Rae needs Ronnie, and he loves her deeply for offering this to him. This point, however, much like Laz’s issues with his wife, comes back to the problem of loving Rae selfishly. Had Rae simply scoffed at Ronnie’s illness, as everyone else has, would he look at her as anything but a piece of meat like everyone else does? If Laz didn’t feel like Rae was his ticket to redemption, would he have dropped her off at the hospital rather than take her in to “fix” her? The characters and their motivations are much more complicated than they first appear, and we wind up with a finely acted study of extremely twisted love that, sad as it may be, is also quite realistic in its tone and resolution.
That this kind of subtlety of character rests so naturally alongside such tawdry material is a testament to the skill of the filmmakers. Sex and violence is fun and all (they’re cornerstones of my film upbringing) but if the viewer doesn’t care about the characters, it doesn’t matter what the plot or content of a movie is, the filmmakers have nothing. This is one reason why Black Snake Moan and Rosemary’s Baby work when films by Catherine Breillat and those like Saw do not. Director Craig Brewer understands character, and aesthetics on top of it, which are both important factors in successful exploitation cinema that are often forgotten. These are the things, though, that allow viewers bridge huge gaps in plot and low production values (where would John Waters be without his trashy sense of style?). Where Black Snake Moan gets the characters right, it has style in spades. In every way, it’s as much a showcase for cinematographer Amy Vincent and composer Scott Bomar as it is for the actors. The shots of rural Tennessee are rendered slowly and deliberately, giving us time to drink in the beauty of the countryside. Characters and situations are given different levels of focus and flashbacks are shot in varying degrees of warmth and coolness, allowing us insight into situations that are not expressly told. Truly, though, the star of this picture is the sound design. From the thundering storms to the gritty songs, they deliver an aural onslaught that brings the viewer directly into the scene. Blues music, and all its fury, is the cornerstone of the film, much more than the sex. The title of the film is a song by Blind Lemon Jefferson, and it’s bookended by footage of Son House on stage describing the blues. A scene in which Laz sings the titular song to Rae as she sits, supplicated, at his feet best describes how this is done. As he growls out the lyrics, a storm brews outside. The crashes of thunder accent his song perfectly to bleed every bit of emotion possible from it. It’s a beautifully arresting scene and one that culminates all that’s good about this film.
The funny thing about that scene though, is that one of my only problems with the movie first shows its face here. The producers made a big deal out of the fact that Samuel Jackson played his own songs for the film. While I have no good way to verify whether or not this is true, I’m suspicious. They never show a detail shot of Jackson playing the guitar where it’s clear it’s actually him, just hands and faces. Why wouldn’t they want to make this fact clear to people? This is the major difference between the greatness of The Hustler and the sorry state of The Color of Money. As much as they pretend that Tom Cruise is making those ridiculous shots, every time they cut away to the end of the cue hitting the ball, I know better. You never saw a Fred & Ginger movie that didn’t have at least one full body shot of both performers dancing together. Authenticity equals immersion in many cases, and Brewer misses the mark here. Maybe I’m nitpicking, but it has stayed on my mind.
The most detrimental problem with the film, though, is one that has been the subject of much complaint. The film is politically extremely difficult. The scenario built and the subject matter used begs viewers to interpret the film in a modern political sense, there is no way around this. Brewer juxtaposes the gender, class, and racial differences in the characters and in the town, but adds no comment and it is next to impossible to not have an opinion on the issues presented. It’s left open to interpretation so, for many, the film will come off as racist and misogynistic. The accusations are hard to argue with, though I don’t think the filmmakers care. Does Brewer condone the attitudes presented here? I doubt it, but without a counter to the attitudes, these readings are inevitable and, especially for modern audiences, necessary to the film’s acceptance.
Because of this, Black Snake Moan ultimately becomes less satisfying than it could have been. It’s very pretty, the characters are well drawn and the music is excellent, but viewers will be forced to supplant their political inclinations for a hundred minutes to fully enjoy what the movie has to offer, which has always been a hallmark of the exploitation genre. I have had to do this plenty of times over the years (especially with the inherent racism foreign-born horror and, especially, the zombie sub-genre…this is for another time), but not all viewers are willing to do this and will leave the picture angry. Still, for some nice looking, but still trashy fun, I recommend it highly. Personally, I laughed like crazy and enjoyed the hell out of it.
