The Nude Restaurant

Andy Warhol's Nude Restaurant which was probably directed by Paul Morrissey. (You can tell by the Jump cuts which were done by turning off the camera and turning it back on causing a streak of white to come on accompanied with a bleep.)A Paul Morrissey way of editing out the boring stuff, well he should have done it for the whole film. In this film there is none of the aesthetic of Warhol's early still films (Kiss, Blowjob), nor any of the Great improvised scenes Morrissey was able to get out of Joe Dallesandro in the Trash, Heat, Flesh, Films. Instead what we see is Viva talking about various inane things, and later playing a coy Waitress that makes out with Alan Midgette. Taylor Mead is the only worthwhile person to see, poking his famous face into the frameline any chance he can. Ingrid Superstar makes her appearance, topless (another one nonetheless). This film is a transitional film, middleground between Warhol's style (boring), and Morrissey's story structured influence starting to show. It would be another few like I' a Man and Bike boy, Lonesome Cowboys and a few others before we would see Flesh, a Narrative film unlike any other previously to come out of the factory.

This movie consists of Warhol "Superstars" hanging out in a restaurant, wearing nothing but bikini underwear (men and women), and discussing random topics. There is no plot or script. Topics go back and forth, but the most interesting topic is the Vietnam War, it's 1967 and very real in the minds of the young people on screen, especially the young men. There's a dark, surreal, and desperate quality in the background of all of the banal conversations, the Vietnam War is going on, the Cold War is going on, what's next? Strange, colorful, and unforgettable, it's very dated, very sixties, but still compelling to watch.

Viva is triumphant in this 1967 Warhol picture, in which the

Warholness shades over into Paul Morrissey-ness, as if the two of

them got stuck in Jeff Goldberg's transporter from THE FLY and

turned into Warhissey.

There's some stranded-performers-paddling-about stuff that's

more evocative of bad Morrissey than bad Warhol; you might want

to think about ankling after the virtuoso 20-minute opening, in

which a no doubt speed-addled Viva goes on one of the funniest,

most pingingly articulate stream-of-consciousness rants I've ever

encountered anywhere--in movies, books, stand-up, or life. Her

perceptions are like a scorpion's pincers and her timing might

make Richard Pryor blush. Trashy faded royalty, either clinging to

delusions of grandeur or giving it up in a blowsy-old-broad

blowout: that's the quintessence of Warhissey. And Viva serves it

up for you hundred proof, filling the glass so full it runs over and

spills on the bar. The kid knew how to save the day--what a

trouper!