Black Snake Moan isn't awful, but it didn't miss by much. Two fine performances, Ricci and Jackson, stop the bleeding. The blame for BSM belongs entirely to Craig Brewer who wrote and directed. Many of you will recall his earlier effort, Hustle & Flow, starring Terrence Howard as Djay, the pimp who couldn't slap straight. I don't know about you, but as far as I'm concerned, no matter how hard it is out there for a pimp, it's not hard enough. Hustle & Flow, despite a brilliant performance by Howard, was poorly conceived and very badly written.



BSN is just as ludicrous, but Brewer has cleverly reversed some cliches. Rae, Ricci, is a sex addict, while Lazarus, Jackson, is morally upright, fighting demons. When he chains her to his radiator - a slight, sexually charged white woman imprisoned by a large, imposing black man - the overtones of America's colorful past are loud. Most notable of all about this film is Ms. Ricci's body. After growing chubbier and chubbier apparently she has taken the bull by the horns and gone to one of those top-secret Hollywood fat farms. She looks fantastic. So much so that she must have had a clause written into her contract specifying that at least 90% of her on screen minutes be spent showing at least 80% of her skin. I'm not complaining but - enough already - you got the job!



For a film with a blues song as a title, and bonus features of Sun House, BSM gets low grades for music. With a show of hubris quite common today, Jackson actually sings and plays guitar, Ricci sings as well. This obnoxious arrogance calls to mind an obvious question - When was the last time you saw the Funkadelics perform Shakespeare in the park? From Walk The Line to Ray and so many others, actors feel qualified to sing, it's a mystery. Another puzzle is the highly charged name, Lazarus. While the biblical reference is obvious, surely Mr. Brewer knows the rule for naming blues musicians. After all, the song, Black Snake Moan, was recorded by Blind Lemon Jefferson in 1927. (Infirmity-Fruit-Name of President). A name like Gimpy Kumquat Taft would have served admirably.



Justin Timberlake is less horrible than one would expect (whew!) while S. Epatha Merkerson is wonderful as always. The third act, the resolution, is appallingly facile. Ricci is an amazing actress, she has a lot of room to work, and she shines. Jackson is blessed with on screen gravitas; he holds your attention throughout. If you can ignore the poor direction and sheer stupidity of the story, you'll enjoy the picture.