'Black Snake Moan' has some redeeming features, but it's no 'Hustle & Flow'

From its lurid poster to its "Superfly"-friendly credits sequence, "Black Snake Moan" begins with the stereotypical markings of an exploitation film. Yet it appears this preamble is largely a shroud, albeit a titillating one, for a cliche-heavy parable of redemption proffered by writer-director Craig Brewer.

Stories of penance are familiar ground for Mr. Brewer, whose de facto debut, "Hustle & Flow," explored a Memphis pimp's turn toward music for salvation. The director appropriates music again as the avenue for self-awakening in "Black Snake Moan." But this time, it's the guttural howlings of Delta blues music that suggest both the protagonist's pains and rewards. It is Lazarus (Samuel L. Jackson), saddled by Mr. Brewer with all the implications that the name suggests, who discovers Rae (Christina Ricci) lying unconscious and half-naked on his old gravel road. Unbeknownst to him, she is this small town's harlot, a doe-eyed girl who sports dirty locks, cut-off shorts and a sexual itch she can't scratch enough.

When Lazarus learns of her sinning ways, the God-fearing man does the only thing he can think of to harness her inner wild child: he chains Rae to his living room radiator and refuses all of her advances.

"God seen fit to put you in my path and I aim to see fit to cure you," says Lazarus.

Since Rae's sexual urges come complete with their own thumping beats, cicada mating calls and deep bass, we can't blame Lazarus for believing he may be called to expel demons from her sinning soul.

Lazarus, heartbroken over his wife's affair with his younger brother, initially views Rae as his chance to prove he can reform an wandering woman. But Rae, he reasons, can't be reformed if she's wandering off in the middle of the night to find another trick.

Your inner Jabba the Hutt/Princess Leia fantasies aside, the chain is a silly way for Lazarus to tame Rae's unbridled desires. Mr. Brewer probably expects the audience to laugh during the setup, but he'd likely be surprised by their guffawing when the film attempts to transition to more serious moments.

The director seems to be his own worst enemy at times, undercutting pivotal scenes with ham-handed layers of metaphor. Lazarus's rebirth as a blues musician, for instance, appears to be catalyzed primarily by the raucous thunderstorm that Mr. Brewer intercuts with the musical crowing.

We're supposed to empathize with both characters, who discover each other during the nadir of their respective lives. But despite a series of hints at a detailed backstory, Rae and Lazarus never feel like more than caricatures.

Rae, whose history of promiscuity and drugs is blamed on the sexual abuse she suffered as a child, never feels as heart-breakingly real, for instance, as Maggie Gyllenhaal's character in "Sherrybaby," who suffered similar slings and arrows of outrageous misfortune. While Sherry Swanson struggled to break her own cycle of depravity, Mr. Brewer suggests Rae can conquer her appetites with a couple of deep breaths and a yank on a chain. It's just not that easy.

That's not to suggest that "Black Snake Moan" isn't redeemable or worth watching. Mr. Brewer has tapped into the consciousness of the Southern Gothic writers like William Faulkner, establishing seedy locales and curious minor characters that evoke that spirit.

My interest ebbed and flowed around Ronnie (Justin Timberlake), a smaller lead who danced in and out of the each of the film's three acts. Like Dejay, the hero of "Hustle & Flow," he yearns for a more meaningful life. He enlists in the National Guard to shake off the dust of his crummy little town, but he's soon drawn back against his will.

More than any 40-pound chain or blues ditty, Ronnie is the unlikely adhesive to Rae's shattered existence. I was delighted by the thought that Rae may have that same effect on Ronnie, whom Timberlake portrays admirably for a pop star turned occasional thespian.

"Black Snake Moan" is schizophrenic in its appeal. It's played up its exploitation to attract an audience, only to sideswipe them with a story of faith, redemption and religion. Mr. Brewer's latest may collect an even bigger box office than "Hustle & Flow," but I wouldn't be surprised if it's on the backs of teenage boys who believe they are paying for something decidedly different than what they receive.