As a tie-in to one of the themes of Exploitive Black Rock History Month as well as an excuse to make public, once more, my feelings on the film Almost Famous, I thought I'd re-run the following thoughts on films that don't rock. Our initial discussion was fun, but I was surprised more failed rock movies weren't brought up and hashed over. What's that one about the fictional Carole King figure (Illyana Douglas) - Grace of My Heart! I liked it, but I've gotten into some long discussions with a couple of friends who KILLED the movie for having, like, a 1967 mixing board in the background during a scene that was set in 1965! Many other rock films do not rock - or cause split reactions among us rock nerds. I'm thinking of The Doors, Andyr. I can't get by the glued-on sideburns; my man Andy is all-forgiving thanks to the mystical Indian/peyote scenes.

This post initially appeared 5/21/07.

I've probably said my piece just fine on my main beef with Almost Famous. Long story short, it's a cheap, self-help, feel-good story for people who won't help themselves to feel good. That, and Kate Hudson is among the most annoying screen presences of this era. The kid's defense of Hudson's groupie with a heart of gold, Penny Lane (Kid: "You guys are always talking about 'the fans, the fans, the fans' - She was your biggest fan!"), during the "truth-telling" flight scare, is especially embarrassing. Knowing glances follow as this 15-year-old dork tells it straight up. How phony! How conceited of semi-autobiographical writer/director Cameron Crowe to cast himself in this role. For whom does Crowe speak? What about that imaginary band's imaginary fans, who wanted to believe the myth of the cocksmen and their groupies? What about the sex, drugs, and rock 'n roll? What about these imaginary fans having to see their imaginary heroes bond over "Tiny Dancer"? Surely there are more realistic, more noble ways to allow for a feel-good, coming-of-age tale in the middle of the world of rock 'n roll!*

Let's move onto the exquisitely conceived Black Snake Moan, or what I'll refer to as Da Blooz Exorcist. Surely you were intrigued by the trailers a few months back of a barely clad Christina Ricci playing a white trash nymphomaniac who's left by the side of the road, taken in, and nursed - in a sense - back to health and salvation by a blues-playing, Bible-totin' Samuel L. Jackson, looking a bit like Pops Staples. I know I was intrigued! This had all the markings of a world-class, what-were-you-thinking turd of hilarious proportions. Last night I watched the film in my hotel room, and it nearly delivered the goods.

What they don't tell you in the trailers is that Jackson's Lazarus character has his own set of troubles, specifically woman troubles. What else? His woman done left him, and he's been hittin' the bottle pretty hard. Turns out he hasn't been playin' da blooz in public fo' some time. The trailer makes you think he shows up on screen a fully formed blooz-slingin', Bible totin' healer from the git-go, doesn't it?

Spoiler Alert! Beware before reading on.

Follow up:

A little more than halfway through the movie, after you've had a chance to study 94% of Ricci's unclothed body (just because Lazarus wants to save this girl by chaining her up to his radiator doesn't mean he feels the need to grab her a set of clothes any time soon), Laz decides she's got to take the final steps toward self-realization on her own. He frees her from the radiator, and the heretofore horny Ricci asks just one favor... Get your mind out of the sewer! She asks him to play her da blooz.

In a highly reverent scene, with Ricci curled at her master's feet, Laz pulls out his Gibson ES355 (or whatever that Chuck Berry model is called), the skies open and thunder strikes, Laz takes off his now pointless wedding band and slips on a slide, and in due time he's a'wailin' and a'moanin' the Black Snake Moan! The camera follows his hands down the neck to his guitar cord, along the floor...to a friggin' Peavey amp!

From this point the movie turns to a brief Afterschool Special interlude of healing and clothes shopping before da blooz come a'callin' again! Lazarus decides to return to the stage with Ricci in tow as his road crew. As Laz plays to a packed house in his previously abandoned juke joint, Ricci gets wasted and does the bump and grind with every negro in the joint. This scene has all the subtlety of John Mellencamp's legendary paper and fire video, the one with the "down home" black people playin' spoons and kickin' up porch dust while he and his band celebrate white people's contributions to the Civil Rights movement.

All this time I've forgotten to tell you about Ricci's boyfriend, played by Justin Timberlake, who ran off to join the army at the beginning of the movie, triggering Ricci's efforts to hump every guy in her small town. Sorry. Anyhow, Timberlake, who displays a weak stomach at the movie's outset, has been kicked out of the army for being a wuss. He spies Ricci doin' the hustle, and the next morning, while Ricci works off her hangover singing a gospel tune with Laz, Timberlake shows up with a gun! Laz quickly calls bullshit on Timberlake, who cowers and clutches his stomach, ready to heave. Then, massive healing ensues!

Laz's minister friend comes over to conduct a frank talk about sexual abuse, love, and commitment. Timberlake weeps for the millions of teenage girls the casting director must have imagined would rush to see this film. Then, the minister's teenage son helps him adjust his tie in the moments leading up to his wedding with Ricci. Shortly thereafter the newlyweds experience their first crises of faith as a married couple: Justin feeling nauseous and Christina feeling the snakes crawl up her crotch. With her newfound knowledge of da blooz's respectable cousin, she sings a few bars of her comforting gospel tune and all is well. Just like that, Da Blooz Exocist end. It's a remarkable.

*On a related note, I've got HBO in my hotel room, which I don't have at home. The last 2 days I've watched bits of The Sopranos, a show I'd only seen once before, years ago. Here's another example of self-help entertainment. Believe me, I'm all for self-help, looking within, and therapy, but it's us who should be getting the help, doing the work, not imaginary thugs and rock stars.