(out of four)
By David N. Butterworth
The question that typically accompanies the latest Brian De Palma film is
just exactly which Brian De Palma will show up for work.
Will it be the one who brought us those sublimely twisted horror flicks of
the Seventies–Carrie, Sisters, and The Fury (see John
Cassavettes explode before our very eyes!)? Will it be the director who
continues to pay his dubious respects to (aka blatantly rip off) the great
Alfred Hitchcock with films like Obsession, Dressed to Kill, and Body
Double? Will it be the kinder, gentler (sic.) De Palma, the man behind Tony
Montana’s ferocious rise to power in Scarface, Elliot Ness’s dogged
pursuit of Al Capone in The Untouchables, or Sherman McCoy’s rapid
descent into hell in Bonfire of the Vanities?
Or will it be the new age, nouveaux-mannered De Palma, he of the misdirected Femme
Fatale (2002), the misguided Mission to Mars (2000), and the
mismanaged Mission: Impossible (1996)?
While The Black Dahlia certainly traverses territory De Palma’s
traversed before–a period piece set in 1940s Los Angeles; the film is based on
the novel by James Ellroy, who also wrote L.A. Confidential–it has few of
the trappings, little of the moral outrage, indeed not much in the way of the
“cinematechnics” one has come to expect from the 66-year-old’s oeuvre.
There’s a tightly crafted set piece in a stairwell that brings to mind the
spectacular Grand Central Station sequence in The Untouchables but
otherwise this bleak, sluggish film could pass for something more suited to
Curtis Hanson, James Foley, or even (at a pinch) Robert Altman.
The film is a stylish (and mostly even) dramatization of the events
surrounding the murder of Hollywood wannabee Elizabeth Short, whose naked,
bisected body was found in a vacant lot in South Central L.A. on January 15th,
1947. Her penchant for wearing mostly dark clothing garnered her the Black
Dahlia nickname. Ellroy’s take on this true-life and to this
day unsolved tragedy is a dark, kaleidoscopic vision that goes way beyond
simply–and fictitiously–fingering the murderer. Josh Hartnett and Aaron
Eckhart play L.A. homicide detectives assigned to the notorious case; Scarlett
Johansson is Eckhart’s dutiful wife; and Hilary Swank plays a swanky society
gal with unfortunate ties to the dead girl.
Hartnett shows some real presence in The Black Dahlia; it’s a juicy
role for the young actor; noir would appear to agree with him. Eckhart, on the
other hand, has a tendency to overact in some of his more emotional scenes but
he’s nevertheless well cast, “Lee” Blanchard to partner “Bucky”
Bleichert, hell Fire to Hartnett’s Ice man. Johansson is just soft-focus
furniture–all angora sweaters and champagne flutes and cigarette holders–and
Swank vamps it up, naturally enough, as a femme fatale.
Plot-wise I was lost after two minutes and none the wiser after 120 (perhaps
thanks as much to screenwriter Josh Friedman as De Palma’s insouciance). Did I
buy the “revelation”? Well, if amount of screen time being inversely
proportional to culpability still carries weight in this town then yes I did!
But it’s a long, if pretty, haul getting there.
If De Palma’s latest proves anything at all it’s that it’s still,
apparently, no cakewalk to make a decent film–or dahlia–noir.
