LA Confidential

Welcome to 1950s Los Angeles, where the men are crooked, the women are dangerous, and everyone’s eyebrows are perfectly sculpted. Curtis Hanson’s “L.A. Confidential” is what happens when you take film noir, inject it with Hollywood steroids, and tell it to solve a murder case that’s more twisted than a pretzel in a tornado.

Our trio of troubled cops includes Guy Pearce as Ed Exley, the kind of straight-arrow officer who probably wrote detention slips in kindergarten; Russell Crowe as Bud White, whose anger management technique is to manage to get angry at absolutely everyone; and Kevin Spacey as Jack Vincennes, a cop so slick he makes his own hair gel out of pure swagger. Together, they form the world’s most dysfunctional crime-solving team since somebody thought it was a good idea to give Sherlock Holmes a cocaine habit.

The plot kicks off with the Nite Owl Massacre, a multiple homicide that’s about as straightforward as quantum physics explained by a drunk physicist. What starts as a simple coffee shop shooting spirals into a labyrinth of corruption that involves dirty cops, Hollywood prostitutes (who look like movie stars), movie stars (who act like prostitutes), and enough double-crosses to make a geometry teacher dizzy.

Enter Kim Basinger as Lynn Bracken, a Veronica Lake lookalike who’s caught in the middle of all this mess. She’s the kind of dame that makes smart men stupid and stupid men even stupider – which in 1950s L.A. is really saying something. Her presence in the story adds layers of complexity to both the plot and the already complicated relationships between our three cops, who apparently never got the memo about bros before… well, you know.

The film weaves together so many subplots it should come with a road map and GPS. We’ve got tabloid journalism (Danny DeVito as Sid Hudgens, who never met a scandal he couldn’t make juicier), police corruption (James Cromwell as Captain Dudley Smith, whose Irish brogue could charm the scales off a snake), and a prostitution ring that gives new meaning to the term “plastic surgery.” All of this somehow ties together in a way that makes perfect sense, assuming you’ve been taking detailed notes and perhaps consulted a private detective.

What Makes It Shine Brighter Than a Hollywood Premiere:

• Dialogue sharp enough to shave with
• A plot more intricate than a Rube Goldberg machine, but twice as satisfying when it all comes together
• Period detail so precise you can practically smell the cigarette smoke and casual misogyny
• Career-defining performances from the entire cast, especially the then-unknown Aussie duo of Pearce and Crowe
• Brian Helgeland’s screenplay, which somehow makes following three protagonists feel as natural as falling down stairs

What Makes It Shadier Than a Palm Tree at Midnight:

• You might need to watch it twice to catch all the plot threads (though that’s hardly a punishment)
• The first hour requires more concentration than defusing a bomb
• Some viewers might need a flowchart to keep track of who’s betraying whom
• The authentic period attitudes toward women and minorities might make modern viewers cringe

The Final Verdict:
“L.A. Confidential” is what happens when you take every film noir cliché in the book, feed them through a meat grinder of excellent writing, phenomenal acting, and pitch-perfect direction, and serve them up on a plate garnished with Hollywood corruption and garnished with murder. It’s a movie so good it makes you wish all police procedurals involved corrupt cops, glamorous prostitutes, and Danny DeVito running a scandal magazine.

This is the kind of film that reminds you why people fell in love with movies in the first place. It’s complex without being confusing, stylish without being shallow, and nostalgic without being naive. It’s like Raymond Chandler and James Ellroy had a baby, and that baby grew up to be the coolest kid in film school.

Rating: 5 out of 5 slightly tarnished badges

P.S. Keep an eye out for the scene where Exley interrogates a suspect while pretending to be way more hardboiled than he actually is. It’s like watching a Boy Scout try to impersonate Dirty Harry, and it’s absolutely perfect. Also, count how many times someone lights a cigarette – you could turn it into a drinking game, but you’d be unconscious before the second act.