untitled
THE BLACK DAHLIA
Director: Brian DePalma
Internet Movie Database Entry for full credits
Grade: B/B- (2.4/4)
2006.
I
would consider Brian DePalma one of the great [contemporary] directors,
just based on his proficiency and prolificacy, even though I'm not much of a fan. I think his directatorial
style tends to be a
little excessive and over-blown, while his particularly obnoxious
manner of referencing film history smacks of pretension.
(Remember the falling baby carriage in The Untouchables?) Don’t get me wrong here, he’s a competent and intelligent
filmmaker -- he knows what he's doing but he never delivers. Mr. DePalma almost got me this time
– for a minute (or more accurately an hour) it really felt like
this was going to be the one. Instead, like The Aviator, it’s an example of that special variety of bad movie that can only be made by a great director.
At first DePalma seems to be
getting everything right in terms of mood and character -- it’s
the mystery that he can’t handle. “The Black
Dahlia”, the name given by the media to a young aspiring actress
brutally murdered in Hollywood during the 1930’s, does not even
show up in the film until the third reel, and even then doesn’t
come to dominate the narrative for nearly two reels more. Until
then, DePalma provides the audience with a cool and gorgeously stylized take on
‘30s Los Angeles and its police force; he also develops an
intriguing and complicated love triangle involving Sgt. Blanchard, a
detective (Aaron Eckhardt); his wife (Scarlett Johansson); and his
partner, Officer Bleichert (Josh Hartnett).
As the case of the
Dahlia’s murder takes center stage, Johansson practically
disappears from the film while Eckhardt and Hartnett rarely appear
on-screen together again. The best part of the film, the
bourgeoning romance, suddenly goes frustratingly unrealized and
forgotten. Instead, we follow a muddied, convoluted yarn to its
confusing and unsatisfying conclusion. Hilary Swank shows up for a turn as
the femme fatale; it's a competent performance, particularly
notable considering the flimsy material. Fiona Shaw, as her mother,
provides some perhaps unintentional comic relief with scenery-chewing
histrionics, but by the end of the film her performance is simply
irritating and distracting. The film peaks too early and as a
result feels too long. Too bad DePalma didn’t do what
Hollywood did seventy years ago: forget about the Black Dahlia and just
tell good love stories. -- Henry Stewart
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