Bad movies are a low-key passion of mine. This is no secret to my forbearing friends who slouched in theater seats next to me during, say, every Paul W. S. Anderson-directed disaster in the “Resident Evil” series. If I had been living in Britain in 2009, when Uma Thurman’s “Motherhood” grossed a piddly £88 during its opening weekend, I can guarantee some of my pocket money would have contributed to that teacup kitty.
My reaction to “The Black Dahlia,” though, was different.
