Internal Gal's Movie Review: The Black Dahlia

I like film noir. I like James Ellroy. I like Brian DePalma. I carried no particular biases against any of the cast. And I have biases, believe me. I didn't mind the movie, but I didn't love it, either. I'd read the book, and thank goodness--otherwise I'd still be sitting in the theatre, trying to figure it out, like the two ladies I passed on my way out. I still feel guilty for not sitting down and drawing them a map, 'cause that's what they needed.

Let's put it this way--James Ellroy writes a tight story. Tighter than tight. Tighter than...well, there are a couple really entertaining euphanisms in the flick that describe his kind of 'tight'. Everything ties up in the end, and I do mean everything. Even if it doesn't make sense in the moment. When you're reading, it's a mental adventure because you just know that somewhere somehow, all these random bits are going to fit together.

Unfortunately, this kind of story doesn't always translate so well to film. And this is one of those times. LA Confidential got Ellory right. The Black Dahlia did not. And now I *might* have a Josh Hartnett bias. I should be impressed he does internal angst so well...but sheesh. His self-pity nearly turns me against him in the end.