I’m all for prurient interest, be it in film, performance, art, or
wherever you can get it. I appreciate the value of enjoying something
purely for its shock value, gross-ness, or sex appeal. But the
dyke-spectacular Black Dahlia was just a plain horrid. I can’t
say I was particularly enthralled to see what Josh Hartnett or Mia
Kirschner would do with their pedestrian noir roles, but I did have
high hopes for alluringly talented Hilary Swank and Scarlett Johanssen.
Unfortunately their acting, which was ridiculously mediocre for these
usually compelling ladies, was unable to salvage any life from the
convoluted but by no means brilliantly complex, script.
But back
to the teenage boy in me. Lesbian noir might have been enough for him.
But the nightclub scene, iconic K.D. Lang surrounded my showgirls, only
incited laughter, not lust. The clubs all seemed to kempt, too bright,
for what my studies have told me acted as mid-century gay bars. Though
a friend assures me that Hollywood was a whole different place, a place
where starlets who wanted the chance to dance with a sister were
privileged to revel in a clean and beautiful night spot, all the 50s
gay joints I ever read about featured only raids and watered down drinks.
As for
the other lesbian scene, wherein Kirschner and her friend film a stag
movie, replete with fanged sex toy, went well beyond the world of sexy
and into the deep pit of terribly creepy. I’m sorry, drugged out
actress wannabes have just never appealed to me.
