I don't know where to begin. In some ways it'd be easier just to sum up by saying "what?! like, what the hell, dude?," because it's hard to begin or end thoughts about a film that seemed to have neither beginning nor (in more ways than one) end. For that matter, the sandwich-oriented two-word review alleged in the classic "This Is Spinal Tap" would be entirely appropriate.
The positive: it's nicely shot.
The negative: everything else.
The acting's okay in parts but I can safely say all the principals have been better in other properties. The script and direction conspire to make this an incomprehensible mess, one that also has pretty much nothing at all to do with the reality of the Black Dahlia case (so much so, in fact, that I don't see any point at all in including that murder, let alone naming the film in its honor). Not having anything to do with the the actual case would be okay, really, if the film had at least one thing worth recommending other than the catchy title and the promise inherent in the same (an unsolved and very sensational murder; "Zodiac" did that very well).
At the 84-minute mark, despite having yet to make any sense of this monumental pile of ego-driven self-indulgent crap, I thought perhaps some kind of blessed conclusion to the film was imminent. But, no; sadly, I had another 26 or so minutes left to endure. Admittedly, about 20 minutes later the story started to resolve itself just a little, although Frau Blücher ("whinnnnnnyyyy") delivering her demented soliloquy didn't exactly act to clarify anything, but when the film finally lurched to the glorious sight of a fade-to-black I was still left wondering what, exactly, I'd just watched.
I'm not saying that films should always spoonfeed us the plot, or that a non-traditional narrative or one that's more than a little off-kilter or nonlinear doesn't have worth when executed well, but this film just plain makes (almost) no sense right from the start and proudly never lets up with its puerile nonsense. I have a feeling that the hour De Palma cut from his original print would almost certainly not explain more but, rather, would merely increase the length of an audience's suffering, perhaps finding new ways to totally lose even the most careful follower of whatever it is that in this case stands in for narrative. It's enough to make Richard Simmons frown. I mean, it's really BAD.
"LA Confidential" covers some of the same ground and is not only a more successful attempt at a modern, color ode to film noir but features a story that actually makes sense and characters that we might actually care about or at least see as human archetypes. If you want to approximate this trainwreck of a film without actually exposing yourself to its corrosive nastiness (nastiness is fine, in its place, but in this case it's redeemed by, well, NOTHING), play the "LA Confidential" DVD backwards while listening to "Revolution #9" frontwards and banging yourself on the head with a rolled up copy of "Pretentious Auteur" magazine. De Palma has made some good films; this is most definitely not one of them. In fact, this is the film that should be shown to all who aspire to celluloid creativity so that they might learn from the errors of Brian's ways and, we hope, not inflict upon us the horror of anything remotely like this film getting a big budget and wide release despite being several steps below "Sweet Movie" in terms of palatability and comprehensibility. And, predictably, some who actually claim to have found worth in this waste of money, talent, and film stock seem to assume that they're privy to some truth that eludes the ignorant hoi polloi who dismiss the piece (these are possibly some of the same people who liked "Heaven's Gate"); De Palma's massively expensive joke is on them.
Ugh.
The positive: it's nicely shot.
The negative: everything else.
The acting's okay in parts but I can safely say all the principals have been better in other properties. The script and direction conspire to make this an incomprehensible mess, one that also has pretty much nothing at all to do with the reality of the Black Dahlia case (so much so, in fact, that I don't see any point at all in including that murder, let alone naming the film in its honor). Not having anything to do with the the actual case would be okay, really, if the film had at least one thing worth recommending other than the catchy title and the promise inherent in the same (an unsolved and very sensational murder; "Zodiac" did that very well).
At the 84-minute mark, despite having yet to make any sense of this monumental pile of ego-driven self-indulgent crap, I thought perhaps some kind of blessed conclusion to the film was imminent. But, no; sadly, I had another 26 or so minutes left to endure. Admittedly, about 20 minutes later the story started to resolve itself just a little, although Frau Blücher ("whinnnnnnyyyy") delivering her demented soliloquy didn't exactly act to clarify anything, but when the film finally lurched to the glorious sight of a fade-to-black I was still left wondering what, exactly, I'd just watched.
I'm not saying that films should always spoonfeed us the plot, or that a non-traditional narrative or one that's more than a little off-kilter or nonlinear doesn't have worth when executed well, but this film just plain makes (almost) no sense right from the start and proudly never lets up with its puerile nonsense. I have a feeling that the hour De Palma cut from his original print would almost certainly not explain more but, rather, would merely increase the length of an audience's suffering, perhaps finding new ways to totally lose even the most careful follower of whatever it is that in this case stands in for narrative. It's enough to make Richard Simmons frown. I mean, it's really BAD.
"LA Confidential" covers some of the same ground and is not only a more successful attempt at a modern, color ode to film noir but features a story that actually makes sense and characters that we might actually care about or at least see as human archetypes. If you want to approximate this trainwreck of a film without actually exposing yourself to its corrosive nastiness (nastiness is fine, in its place, but in this case it's redeemed by, well, NOTHING), play the "LA Confidential" DVD backwards while listening to "Revolution #9" frontwards and banging yourself on the head with a rolled up copy of "Pretentious Auteur" magazine. De Palma has made some good films; this is most definitely not one of them. In fact, this is the film that should be shown to all who aspire to celluloid creativity so that they might learn from the errors of Brian's ways and, we hope, not inflict upon us the horror of anything remotely like this film getting a big budget and wide release despite being several steps below "Sweet Movie" in terms of palatability and comprehensibility. And, predictably, some who actually claim to have found worth in this waste of money, talent, and film stock seem to assume that they're privy to some truth that eludes the ignorant hoi polloi who dismiss the piece (these are possibly some of the same people who liked "Heaven's Gate"); De Palma's massively expensive joke is on them.
Ugh.