Comparisons between The Black Dahlia and 1997's L.A. Confidential are unavoidable. Both were born from the obsessions of writer James Ellroy. Both take place amid the glamour and hidden grime of postwar Hollywood. And both are less about crime than they are about men with bruised knuckles searching for redemption. But The Black Dahlia, despite the direction of Brian De Palma and a some solid performances, can't achieve the greatness of Curtis Hanson's film; if it accomplishes anything, it will be to remind you of just how much of a miracle L.A. Confidential turned out to be.
Starring Josh Hartnett and Aaron Eckhart—as Officer Dwight "Bucky" Bleichert and Sergeant Leland "Lee" Blanchard, respectively—The Black Dahlia reimagines the notorious murder of Elizabeth Short, whose bisected and otherwise mutilated body turned up in a vacant lot one cruel morning in the winter of 1947. Just 22 years old when she was murdered, Short (dubbed "The Black Dahlia" by excitable reporters) sent the press and public into a tizzy, inspiring large-font headlines for over a year, and generally wreaking havoc upon the Los Angeles Police Department. Clues were scant, phony confessions many, and to this day, despite a number of scribbling sleuths (most notably former LAPD detective Steve Hodel, whose book Black Dahlia Avenger accuses his own father of the murder), the case remains officially unsolved. Elizabeth Short—would-be starlet, serial fibber, and infamous beauty—has yet to find justice.
In De Palma's film, this notorious lady is played by Mia Kirshner, whose plaid-skirted gyrations in Exotica continue to pay dividends, and whose dark beauty—troubled, often vacant, always alluring—is a decent match for the Dahlia's much obsessed-over features. As Kirshner plays her, the Dahlia is a writhing, infuriating sexpot, ballsy before a camera lens and naive when it's most disastrous. Whether it's a true portrayal isn't for me to say, but it serves the purpose of thoroughly bewitching officers Bleichert and Blanchard, who find themselves becoming unhealthily obsessed with the Dahlia. Blanchard's obsession is spurred by his love for Kay (Scarlett Johansson), whom he rescued from a sadistic lowlife; Bleichert's due to an overpowering desire to pork a rich-girl Dahlia look-alike named Madeleine (Hilary Swank). Both men are driven to risk life and, as it turns out, jugular in pursuit of the Dahlia's killer.
For the most part, the setup is smooth; De Palma, as assured as ever behind the camera, keeps things moving at a brisk pace, and his work during the Dahlia's autopsy is a masterpiece of withholding gore for greater effect. But as The Black Dahlia nears its climax, things turn frustratingly adrift. With so much to wrap up in so little time, the film's central mystery—just who killed the Dahlia, and why—can only be presented in a form of half-assery, rushed to a conclusion that would ring hollow if it weren't so comical. Eckhart, so strong for most of the film, is reduced to throwing tantrums; Hartnett is left to clumsily pick up the pieces; and even Swank, having played Madeleine throughout most of the film as a beguiling tramp, veers wildly between fast-talking dame and petulant child à la Katherine Cross in Chinatown. By the time the Dahlia's killer is finally unmasked, it's via the sort of misguided scenery consumption that would make Norma Desmond proud.
Which is a shame, since so much of the film works so well. Near the end of The Black Dahlia, Madeleine berates Bleichert, saying, "You're a boxer, not a fighter." It's a great line—and it serves to describe the film as a whole. For 100 or so minutes, De Palma and company dance around us, throwing jabs that make us flinch, and confusing us with their footwork. But once we hit the ropes, the knockout punch never arrives. By the end of the film we should be on the mat; instead we can only shrug and shuffle off to our corner. 
Read Bradley Steinbacher's conversation with James Ellroy about The Black Dahlia, sex appeal, and the wisdom of ex-wives.
