God-fearing black man tames slutty white girl asshole fever as Brewer's
South rises again
Hussy 'n' Flow
by Rob Nelson February 28, 2007 found at citypages.com
It may be hard out there for a pimp, but it ain't too hard for a
writer-director to make a movie whose marketing hinges on the lurid spectacle of
Samuel L. Jackson pulling a half-naked Christina Ricci around on a chain. This
sort of cheap trick is what they used to call exploitation—or, more
to the point, blaxploitation; despite the sounds of them, neither term
is derogatory, at least not toward the movies. Ex- and blax- formulas are merely
the shortcuts that underprivileged properties take to getting themselves funded
and promoted and seen: Put a (black) man pulling a half-naked (white) woman
around on a chain in your pitch/poster/trailer and, particularly if your last
feature was the pimpin'-ain't-easy Oscar-winner Hustle & Flow, you
got a deal. Matter of fact, you might also have a masterpiece, since such a
great movie can, in theory, be made from any subject—including that of a
smooth-rappin' pimp who gets his house in order and his hos, too.
Alas, theory ain't shit when the final cut is due, and, as Flow-maker
Craig Brewer ain't Melvin Van Peebles (or John Waters or Russ Meyer or Larry
Cohen or Katt Shea Ruben), Black Snake Moan sho-nuff ain't no Sweetback.
Indeed, long stretches of Brewer's Suthun-fried sophomore slump come down the
country road lookin' as haggard as a workaholic ho on a Sunday morning. (Yes,
this review is a piece of exploitation, too.) As in Flow, Brewer only
allows himself so much nasty fun before it's time to issue his trick-turners
their hard-earned redemption: Jackson's chain-yankin' Lazarus learns to temper
his righteous indignation; Ricci's Rae, she of the belly-baring Confederate-flag
tee and unclean panties, puts on some decent clothes and even reckons she might
get hitched; the filmmaker begins to direct his grindhouse fantasy of female
enslavement as if it were Our Town.
At least Brewer knows well the first rule of exploitation, which is that if
the premise don't fit on a condom wrapper or a piece of rolling paper, it ain't
a movie. This one could fit on one of Rae's sorely needed cough drops: Cruelly
cuckolded middle-aged Tennessee farmer and part-time bluesman goes to take out
the garbage, finds a piece of white trash left for dead in a ditch, takes her
in, and then sets about stripping the scantily clad young nymph of her evil
ways. L'il ball 'n' chain disciplinin' never hurt any slut, even one who's got a
wicked fever and been beaten bloody. Lazarus actually turns out to be a real
gentleman, drawin' baths and singin' lullabies and such, although Brewer can't
resist taking advantage of Rae in her weakened condition by giving her rape
nightmares, which are made to look just a smidge like pay-cable porn, the camera
sliding down the poor nymph's leg while she tosses and turns. Unconscious, this
girl's still gotta have it.
As even Esquire's hot and bothered critic couldn't fail to notice,
Brewer is upstanding enough to pay for his sins. Beginning with a bang—Justin
Timberlake's soon-to-ship-out National Guardsman bumpin' and grindin' atop his
half-loyal girlfriend Rae—Black Snake Moan finds God around the bend,
with Jackson's perverse holy man once again drawing his pulp fiction straight
outta the good book. For Lazarus (or Brewer), scrubbing this bad girl's soul
means not subjecting her to slavery so much as getting her to work in the
kitchen, to sing "This Little Light of Mine" (no kidding), to
appreciate a talking blues sermon about the hellfire horrors of abortion. Lord
willing, our hero can break this wild mare: Call him the Ho Whisperer.
Asshole fever Second rule of exploitation:
For God's sake, don't be boring. Alas, after his camera has had its fill of
ogling Rae, Brewer turns out to have nothing up his sleeve, nothing in his
pants, only a little on his mind and none of it, amazingly, to do with race.
Whatever provocation helps sell the movie—including Timberlake's knee-jerk
turn as a panic-attacked grunt—doesn't give Black Snake Moan the
slightest hint of substance, which is maybe the real reason it got the green
light. Both times I saw the film (like Rae, I'm a glutton for punishment), male
buddies in the theater turned to one another with knowing smirks—like, Holy
moly, now ain't this one a l'il vixen? Maybe these guys had lost
their...uh, full attention by the time Brewer contrives to get Rae all gussied
up and ready to shake her thing down the aisle. But by then, I might reckon the
good ol' boys got what they came for. Get some asshole
fever videos
Deliberate
Orgasm Duet