The Black Dahlia


The Black Dahlia is inspired by the true story of the infamous 1947 murder of Elizabeth Short, an aspiring Hollywood actress whose body is mutilated and left in a field. For the LAPD detectives assigned to the case, the murder sparks a series of events resulting in a complicated tale of obsession and betrayal.

The murder itself is the first of the film’s problems. It is supposed to be the emotional center of all of the characters’ conflict, but the viewer is rarely allowed to feel sympathy for the victim. Mia Kirshner delivers a great performance as the tragically insecure Ms. Short whom we see interacting with a faceless casting director on old reels, but those scenes are few and are overshadowed by numerous insensitive shots of her corpse.

The movie’s only highlight is its visual tribute to 1940s style cinema, using layered fade shots and static camera angles to recreate the budding era of Hollywood. There are several impressively directed scenes, one an aerial sweep of a street riot, the other a complicated stage-like shot of a busy Los Angeles intersection. However, the film’s visual strength is offset by its inability to conjure up any feeling in its actors. The acting is fair, but wooden. Josh Hartnett, Scarlett Johannsen, Aaron Eckhart and Hillary Swank seem to be trapped by Josh Friedman’s uninteresting script that, although employs the familiar noir jargon, lacks the freshness and pep of a cool detective movie. The characters certainly look their parts, but as afore mentioned, the visuals are all there are.

Usually, a movie’s objectionable content alone will not ruin it for me, but The Black Dahlia’s R-rated material factored in heavily to my displeasure with the film. I do not unilaterally condemn all strong content in movies because it is often used to develop plot elements, pack a thematic punch or be stylistically appropriate. Sadly, The Black Dahlia has nothing significant to contribute to any of these areas, so it all comes across as excess. The countless sex scenes, including an unedited recreation of a lesbian porn film were more than enough to convince me that, thespian considerations aside, this is nothing beyond gratuitous smut. What makes the violence so disturbing is not necessarily how much is shown, but rather the gleeful treatment it gets. The torturous murder scene is unexpectedly colorful, more like a Carrie than The Untouchables. Someone should remind Mr. De Palma that he is dealing (albeit loosely) with an actual murder victim, and that the unsympathetic violence comes off as disrespectful to the deceased. Save your brain some inerasable images and steer clear of this mindless mess of cheap shock value.

Brian De Palma has pieced together a confusing attempt at film noir permeated with unclear twists and dull characters. The many plot elements are as uninteresting as they are emotionless, and only the film’s excessive violence and sex keep it from being totally forgettable.