Black Snake Moan
Ruth and I went out and caught Craig Brewer's Black Snake Moan at the Somerville Theatre earlier this evening, in a gigantic decaying Art-Deco old-style movie-house with curtains and about three other people in it and almost no heating.
Wow.
The one-sheets for Black Snake Moan had led me to expect, well, pretty much a seventies-throwback blaxploitation raveup: I mean, Christina Ricci, basically unclothed, is chained to Samuel L. Jackson's leg.
And that's in there, and I don't know how else they could have marketed it, but that was one of the finest pieces of pure cinema I've seen in a very long time, as well as being a movie which raises and confronts things movies don't talk about, and also a serious and genuine exploration of the aesthetic, morals, and ethics associated with the blues.
( Plus Samuel L. Jackson can sing. Who knew? )
Wow.
The one-sheets for Black Snake Moan had led me to expect, well, pretty much a seventies-throwback blaxploitation raveup: I mean, Christina Ricci, basically unclothed, is chained to Samuel L. Jackson's leg.
And that's in there, and I don't know how else they could have marketed it, but that was one of the finest pieces of pure cinema I've seen in a very long time, as well as being a movie which raises and confronts things movies don't talk about, and also a serious and genuine exploration of the aesthetic, morals, and ethics associated with the blues.
( Plus Samuel L. Jackson can sing. Who knew? )