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Nights in White Cotton
By bukkhead | July 17, 2007
FILM REVIEW: ‘BLACK SNAKE MOAN’
Written and directed by Craig Brewer
Rated R
116 mins.
Watching Christina Ricci crawl around on the ground in her underwear for half a movie is not a bad way to spend a Tuesday night. But after a while, a question nags: how do her panties keep from getting dirty? After all, this is the deep south, a south so deep the white folks use the N word without batting an eyelash, and phrases like “kiss my rebel ass,” aren’t ironic, just iconic. It’s the dirty south. And she’s all over the ground. For a lot of the movie.
Rae is a troubled girl and Ronnie is the man troubled enough to keep her out of trouble. Mostly. But then he goes off to war, and her troubles start to haunt her. Let’s say you’re a dirty-blonde walking to town in the middle of a dirt road, in your sleeveless T leaving little to the imagination, your cowboy boots, and your cutoffs that would make Daisy Duke herself blush. And let’s say in a brilliant framing shot, a combine coming down the road behind you honks its horn and you just flip the bird without even looking back. What kind of troubles do you think you’re going to have? Obviously, your troubles are going to involve spending a lot of time in just your underwear. Rolling around on the ground.
What happens to Rae is predictable, but that’s okay. Her problem is a little too common, and even if we pass judgment on the town harlot, its not because she ever truly shocks us. Enter recently dumped Lazarus, who takes it upon himself to pick this white girl up, literally, and chain her to his radiator. Somehow, he’s going to heal her, and we’re supposed and believe she really wants to get better.
One thing that every movie featuring the stereotypical “slut,” likes to make clear is that the slut has pride. She knows who she is. She does awful things, she’s got no moral fiber, but she’s got integrity. Somehow. And a heart of gold. Black Snake Moan is no different. So even though Rae gets used and abused, you find it hard to feel sorry for her—she’s not a victim. Not until later in the film, when we get the usual rejected-redemption moment.
But where else could the movie go? Christina Ricci can’t spend the entire movie in just her underwear; it’s not that kind of movie. And we need an excuse for Samuel Jackson to sing, cause he needs some redemption as well. I’m not hear to pass judgment either, but Sam Jackson can’t, actually, sing. It’s not bad, it’s just not good. But his guitar work is excellent, and the man is a damn fine actor; who cares about the singing.
So this is a movie based on the blues, but it’s also a Hollywood movie: it can’t have a happy ending, but it can’t be tragic either. In the end? Ricci puts her clothes back on. I assume her underwear is still clean too.
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