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Is there a more hotly-contested or perplexing director alive than Brian de Palma? Film fans, and certainly film critics, are just about equally divided on the merits of this prominent director, who came up in the early seventies and has long been shafted outside of the system for not playing by the rules. Like Scorsese, he is a master of using the camera as an additional character in a scene. But Scorsese's best whirling dervish camera moves express an animalistic hostility. When De Palma takes his camera out to play, he expresses animalistic kink. There is one quality that the best De Palma films have that no one else has mastered as well: their sensuality and luridness.

De Palma has long been obsessed with themes like voyeurism, forbidden desire, men who get in over their heads and the femme fatales that rip them to shreds. So it is only fitting in theory that he should direct the movie adaptation of James Ellroy's "The Black Dahlia". In De Palma's hands, you can imagine one of the only true film noirs in color-- the palettes, the themes, the acting (which may be off-putting to some, but representative of a "style" outside of naturalism that is suitable to the genre). All of these add up to create a promising cinematic experience. There's just one problem: the script meanders and neglects what should be its true focus. In novel form, a writer is encouraged to uncover many little subplots that may not fit with the general flow of the story, but add to the flavor and to the deepening of characterization. In a film noir attempt that should be as tightly constructed as possible, this is an extravagance that can throw you way off track. And so determines the downfall of "The Black Dahlia".

As a companion piece to James Ellroy's film version of "LA Confidential", De Palma's film seems like its horny, indulgent, out of control bastard sibling. But we've come to expect these kinds of disreputable qualities from a De Palma film. We like De Palma for the forbidden nature of his themes and for the sensual pull of his hypnotic imagery. Often compared to Hitchcock, he's often taken the master's sense of technique and gone to the nth degree with it; he's Hitchcock without restrictions, working feverishly on a level of pure id.

De Palma, more than any other director with the possible exception of Scorsese, seems drunk on the power of cinema. Maybe this is why people are so divided on his work. When someone is that loose and unabashed in thier style, it could be misinterpreted as sophomoric. "Responsible" critics may feel an obligation to reign him in.

But De Palma's fans want him to keep digging deeper and going further. His best sequences are those that rely solely on the visual; think of the disc theft sequence from "Mission:Impossible", the train station scene in "The Untouchables", the 20 minute Grand Central Station chase in "Carlito's Way", the dance of avoidance in the art gallery from "Dressed to Kill", or the blood-soaked rampage that closes "Carrie". "The Black Dahlia" is much too literate a film to allow for these stylistic breaks. Sadly, De Palma's one major attempt to recreate this purely visual magic, via a staircase scene, suffers from a moment of embarrassing and clumsy staging (although it does also contain some effectively plump, overwrought images as well).

The film's failings can almost uniformly traced back to the writing. With a streamlined and more narrowly focused script, this film might have soared under the sure hands of this cinematic master. As it stands, "The Black Dahlia" has a few scattered moments, but mostly plays like a big mess of unbalanced flourishes that can't find a proper home. But there are images from the film that have stayed with me. They live where all of De Palma's images belong -- in the fantasy mind.

For instance, the best moments of "The Black Dahlia" involve the young victim during a black and white screen test as she is broken down, coaxed and sexually victimized by an ominous off-screen director. These moments have a sad, magnetic power because the starlet-wannabe is more than willing to be humiliated if it gets her an inch closer to her escapist dreams.

A similar thread holds "Hollywoodland" together; only here it is the major thrust of the story. The film concerns another of L.A.'s most notoriously unsolved murders (?) as George Reeves (TV's Superman) is found dead from a gunshot wound to the head. The film captures the wounded ego of an actor who finds himself no longer viable, and the surrounding people who feel a need to build him up or take him down.

Ben Affleck has been receiving heaps of praise for his portrayal of Reeves. Affleck has always been a decent actor with questionable judgement. As Reeves, he captures the insatiable need and agitation that results from a flirtation with stardom. As the character ages and becomes more and more defeated, Affleck's face displays a weariness and maturity he has not previously achieved.

Adrien Brody plays a private detective who seeks the truth behind Reeves' suspicious death. Brody is a fascinating actor. He has a quiet command that very few of his peers can achieve, but when he tries to go manic, as he did throughout "The Jacket", his performance fails to hold together. He's on top of his game here, though, as he downplays the role and doesn't make attempts at unnecessary flourish.

Everyone in the film is heartbreakingly needy. That's the story of Hollywood. Allen Coultier, the writer and first-time feature director, creates a world where the weak are preyed upon by those who carry the power and the demons they carry within themselves.

Visually, the picture isn't nearly as impressive as DePalma's candy-colored noir fest, but it doesn't aim to be. Coultier comes from television's "The Sopranos" and "Six Feet Under", and the film plays like an exceedingly well-produced HBO film. After all, it's about people who never quite made a life on the big screen, so the fact that the film's look seems more suited to a boxed frame only enhances that theme.

The Black Dahlia: C

Hollywoodland: B