The Black Dahlia

There's a line about half an hour into The Black Dahlia that goes something like this: 'I feel it's my duty as a friend, make it look good.' This could be a throwaway line or it could be a warning to De Palma from James Ellroy's fans to treat his down-and-dirty pulp novel with utmost respect. De Palma indeed makes The Black Dahlia 'look good'; but any substance or plot narrative went missing somewhere in the book-to-screen transition. De Palma's career has been a catalogue of highs and lows: for every Scarface, there's a Body Double, for every Carlito's Way, there's a Bonfire Of The Vanities, and now, for every Carrie, there's a Black Dahlia. Set in 1940s L.A., The Black Dahlia follows two hard-boiled detectives - Bucky Bleichert (Hartnett) and Lee Blanchard (Eckhart) - as they try to unravel the mystery behind the gruesome death of a wannabe actress. The murder becomes an obsession with Blanchard, and Bleichert tries to stop him going over the edge while navigating department corruption. The Black Dahlia has all the noir ingredients - rain-soaked streets, cigarette-loving femme fatales, a surprise twist, important names you must remember coming at you at the speed of light and a lot of the story happening off screen - De Palma brings '40s L.A. to the screen with aplomb and his film can't be faulted visually. However, with this meticulous attention to detail, no one noticed that the script was overlong, confusing and, by the end, downright ridiculous. It's not the players' fault either: Hartnett, although not tough enough and too good looking for the role, keeps his head above water; Eckhart looks like he put a lot of thought into the little idiosyncrasies of Blanchard's character (the way he holds a cigarette, etc), Swank is flawless as the intoxicating Madeleine while Johansson does what she can with the small role she was handed, and really has little to do but to hang around the house cooking dinner. Once again, it's an opportunity lost for Mr. De Palma.