With Black Snake Moan, Craig Brewer's follow-up to Hustle & Flow, the director proves he can control atmosphere with the best of them. One of Hustle & Flow's greatest strengths was its sense of milieu -- while watching it, you feel as if you've stepped into an entirely integrated, self-contained world. Its only taint may have been the touting of its reference point, which was the exploitation style of the '70s. This gave the movie a sense of irony that, for me, added some confusion to its actual present-day setting; but it also meant that a point of reference was needed for validation of its style. In other words, although the style seemed engrossing, you still had to get its joke as well in order to fully appreciate it.

Not so with Black Snake Moan. If this Southern tale has a similar point of stylistic reference, it's much more overshadowed with a confident sense of self. This is a movie designed to tell its strange, funny, pulpy tale in the way it wants to. And the elements that made Hustle & Flow's world feel so palpable are all in place here too, from the simplicity of the character motives and dialogue to the soundtrack, amped up in all the right places. They make the scenery feel sticky, like you can taste the humidity in the air.

Brewer finds muses in the stories of simple people who perhaps take their time stumbling toward one of humanity's most potent pusuits -- to find personal redemption and salvation amongst their troubles here on earth. His protagonists aren't usually any more special than ordinary people and their aspirations and tribulations are also pretty common, but he tells these stories with an uncommon touch of dedication and detail. Hustle & Flow lost me a bit, though, with its ending, which I felt got out of hand; but Black Snake Moan does exactly the opposite. At first, it's a little hard to swallow -- one of its two main characters is a sexy young nymphomaniac named Rae, played by Christina Ricci, whose compulsion is played up nearly to the point of psychosis -- but it gets better and more believable as it goes.

The movie is also supported by a sense of playful outrageousness, which reaches its early high point with the much-advertised scenario showing Rae, in nothing but a cut-off top and her panties, chained to the radiator in the home of Lazarus (Samuel L. Jackson), a recently cuckolded man still smarting spiritually. Upon finding out Rae is essentially the town tramp, Lazarus takes it upon himself to save her, however reluctant she may be, and, perhaps, find his own salvation in the process. Much of this situation is mined for humor, but after this particular section of the story has run its course and the movie allows Rae and Lazarus to begin bonding, momentum is maintained and our involvement with these characters deepens. And the film gets funkier and more touching as it reveals, as so many other stories have, that the blues can save your soul.

Brewer's other constant so far is the level of acting in his movies. Hustle & Flow's Terrence Howard gave one of the most talked about performances of its year, and Taraji P. Henson provided that film with some of its most memorable moments. Here, Jackson makes a comeback after a year of mediocre turns (from Freedomland to Snakes on a Plane to Home of the Brave). It's a purely enjoyable performance, one only made better by his pairing with an explosive Ricci, who takes what might've been a joke of a character and makes her into someone you root for.

Justin Timberlake might be the only weak link here, but that he can't quite match the genuine intensity of the two co-stars may not be his fault. Through them, and through that sticky atmosphere, stretched and exaggerated when necessary with a deft use of the cinematic tools at Brewer's disposal, Black Snake Moan becomes an enjoyable, dynamically stylized telling of, at its heart, the age-old tale of some regular flawed folks just trying to make good.

(Released by Paramount Vantage and rated "R" for strong sexual content, some violence and drug use.)

Review also posted at www.windowtothemovies.com.