The Black Dahlia: A Rant

In between hours of pause-and-play watching of most of Duvivier's filmography, I sometimes like to treat myself to something a bit lighter. Due to the availability of free internet (thank you, belkin) in my still-bare apartment and the fact that I live alone, I tend to lure myself to sleep every evening with a session of Netflix.

Last night I watched "The Black Dahlia." It looked promising, at least visually, but alas--turned out to be a disaster (Grade: C-/D+). First of all, what in the what was happening? The movie was confusing as all hell, beginning with the very opening riot sequence (apparently it took place at an earlier time in the heroes' lives...who knew? Not I...). Then there were all the subplots...why? Lee and Bucky (Aaron Eckhart and Josh Hartnett, respectively) are boxers-turned-policemen, but sometimes they still fight rigged fights (?) for some reason or other. The plot painfully tries to follow the personal and professional mayhem that takes over the two men's lives after they are commissioned to solve the mystery of the Black Dahlia.

For a film called "The Black Dahlia," surprisingly little of it had anything to do with the murder of Elizabeth Short. When Bucky finally discovered the location of the murder (because location is more important than murderer, duh), all I could think was "does this mean it's almost over??!" And Hilary Swank...really? Until I had spent fifteen minutes browsing explanations online, I had not an inkling that she was supposed to be a dead ringer of the deceased Short. What was that accent? She seemed to alternate between a drunk Creole prostitute and a member of the Irish upper-crust. Either way, I found myself caring less and less for our tortured Bucky as the movie progressed.

Another major quip I had with the plot were the sexual diversions. Not only were they diversions for our hero, but also for the audience, and not in the "ooh, a sex scene!" way. Here is a man, plagued and consumed by a gruesome murder case and the equally grisly death of his partner and friend, and all he can do is go out and sleep with women. Granted--one of these women is the oozing Scarlett Johansson, whose ginormous breasts distracted me even further from any chance I had at following the plot. If the title of the film was to reflect anything about the plot, it should have been "Hartnett Furrows His Brow and Has Sex."

Alright, I loved the noir conventions, long-gone from present-day cinema, including, but not limited to the transitions from scene-to-scene. All this Perry Grant business has got me appreciating the use of the obsolete swipe in all its forms, as well as the overbearing presence of post-coital smoking.

Note to director Brian de Palma: pearls, antiques, and lace do not make a film. At most, they make a hauntingly beautiful still, but not a movie.