Homophobic, racist, anti-Semitic, right winger and hater of
the Kennedys and the Clintons, he’s also one of the best writers working today in
the crime detective genre. This rabid pit bull bully can be intimidating
and I honestly
don’t know that I would like him if I ever met him, but as a writer I generally
do. That being
said and out of the way I
can spend some time writing about this compelling documentary about James Ellroy
and his dark fascination with the horrible murder of his mother when he was 10
and the Black Dahlia murder case that has held his interest for many years. Both
murders are capital letters
L.A. crimes.
Palm trees and cheap road houses, booze, cars and Hollywood starlets fast and loose
and both remain unsolved to this day.
Ellroy has been sparked and goosed by these two
murders and they have fueled several books by him and made him a wealthy man. Good
for him. Murder does pay. The movie shows him giving book store readings, (he
sure has his shtick down pat), having dinner with L.A. detectives, revisiting
his mother’s murder, and cruising by his past checking and pointing out
childhood landmarks of his youth in L.A. He was a bad boy. He would sneak into
homes when empty and smell the panties of the young girls who lived there.
Junkie and alcoholic at a young age and a
champion voyeur in his teens. This guy was brilliantly fucked up, and he
survived all this shit to tell us the story of his mother who he loved and
hated and to spell and spill out her tawdry life for us. The film is sometimes grisly
as when we are shown crime photos of his mom lying dead on the side of a road,
and especially those horrible photos of Elizabeth Short all chopped up in
pieces with the blood drained out of her and a sardonic smile carved into her
once pretty face. This stuff hurts, it’s a rolling bolder coming at us at high
speed, and believe me this documentary is not for everyone, hell it might not
be for anyone, but hey if you’re up for it and can handle your nightmares that
poke at you even during the day, then I say see this bitch of a movie but don’t
come crying to me afterwards.
Homophobic, racist, anti-Semitic, right winger and hater of
the Kennedys and the Clintons, he’s also one of the best writers working today in
the crime detective genre. This rabid pit bull bully can be intimidating and I honestly
don’t know that I would like him if I ever met him, but as a writer I generally
do. That being said and out of the way I
can spend some time writing about this compelling documentary about James Ellroy
and his dark fascination with the horrible murder of his mother when he was 10
and the Black Dahlia murder case that has held his interest for many years. Both
murders are capital letters L.A. crimes.
Palm trees and cheap road houses, booze, cars and Hollywood starlets fast and loose
and both remain unsolved to this day. Ellroy has been sparked and goosed by these two
murders and they have fueled several books by him and made him a wealthy man. Good
for him. Murder does pay. The movie shows him giving book store readings, (he
sure has his shtick down pat), having dinner with L.A. detectives, revisiting
his mother’s murder, and cruising by his past checking and pointing out
childhood landmarks of his youth in L.A. He was a bad boy. He would sneak into
homes when empty and smell the panties of the young girls who lived there. Junkie and alcoholic at a young age and a
champion voyeur in his teens. This guy was brilliantly fucked up, and he
survived all this shit to tell us the story of his mother who he loved and
hated and to spell and spill out her tawdry life for us. The film is sometimes grisly
as when we are shown crime photos of his mom lying dead on the side of a road,
and especially those horrible photos of Elizabeth Short all chopped up in
pieces with the blood drained out of her and a sardonic smile carved into her
once pretty face. This stuff hurts, it’s a rolling bolder coming at us at high
speed, and believe me this documentary is not for everyone, hell it might not
be for anyone, but hey if you’re up for it and can handle your nightmares that
poke at you even during the day, then I say see this bitch of a movie but don’t
come crying to me afterwards. 
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