Chelsea Girls

It was with both amazement and boredom that I viewed this 210-minute film at a college film society series.

At the end, I left with decidedly mixed emotions, which were close to frustration . . . what a waste, I thought.

What could have been truly a unique masterwork with proper editing turned out to be an uneven "rough draft" in search of some benevolent cutting shears.

Either Paul Morrissey and Andy Warhol didn't have an artistic eye, after all, or just didn't much care about creating a final polished artwork.

On the plus side was the use of two 35 mm. projectors showing two completely different scenarios side by side. It began with just one full size movie--then when the second projector started, words are inadequate to describe the excitement, thrill and rush of it all! What a concept! The viewer began to wonder about the relationship, if any, between the two stories; then dazzled by the mere experience of watching two different, full size movies simultaneously--and finally annoyed by the sheer length, redundancy and weightiness of the whole matter.

If Paul or Andy didn't have the ability to edit their work effectively, for godsake, why didn't they bring in someone who could? Didn't they realize that takes consistently great footage to support three hours and a half hours of sitting in one spot in a theater (or were they two spaced out to notice?).

"Chelsea Girls" ultimately remains a fatally flawed feature that one can get just as much reading about as viewing. A pity, for this was a tragically missed opportunity in cinematic history.

As a fiction movie, it's nothing. As a documentary on a way-of-life, it's crap. As Art, of any kind, it's crap. As an angry, personal statement, it's overlong. As a collection of friends put together in a basement that happens to be a few derelict, crowded hotel rooms, it's a poor joke. As existentialism philosophy, it's below zero. This is one of a handful films that kicked me out of the theater before the end - and Gosh, have I seen bad stuff in my life of thousands of film viewing... (I resisted up to the first colour-reel, if you're suspecting I left early. I managed up to the first 140 minutes or so.) Frankly, and sincerely yours truly - take my advice: if you want to know something about Warhol, don't waste your time trying to locate this film.

I love Andy Warhol´s avant-garde vision of movie making. I especially enjoyed "Chelsea.. This film could be just what 8 1/2 meant for Fellini...

This is definitely an interesting film as directed by Paul Morrissey, who was told what to direct.Brigid Polk was especially funny as the duchess. I am told they were all on speed, and were almost arrested as the hotel Switchboard listened to the duchess make deals. Warhol exploited people and that is fine if you like to be exploited. WHich everyone in the film was. Later when Edie Sedgwick tried to break away and have her footage cut out and refused to make movies anymore, she was banned from the studio when Warhol was profiting very well from the movies. When Mary Woronov tried to break away she was thrown down a flight of stairs, when she asked for profits from the movies. Warhol was a sadistic "artist" talented or not who exploited people. Later when Edie was had finally broke away from him he said"I wish I could film her committing suicide". WHat a great friend. I wish Edie were still alive and he was so she could smack him in the head

Maddening but exquisite--one of the most beautiful of all American movies. The genius of Warhol as filmmaker was his stubborn insistence--conscious or otherwise--on bringing the principles of portraiture in painting to movies. Warhol understood that the power of the portrait is as psychological as it is technical, and his strategies for eliciting "acting" were as excruciating as they are potent. In his filmed "still lifes" of Edie Sedgwick and Henry Geldzahler he seemed to extract a spiritual radiance through duration and discomfort as if from a syringe, and in "Chelsea Girls" the concentrated sadism of his directing style produces similarly unpredictable, human, extravagant results. Shown with two projectors (one randomly producing sound, the other silent), the film shows three and a half hours of faces--superstars and hangers-on hung out to dry in front of an impassive and directionless camera that, after the maestro's fashion, silently encourages the "performers" to entertain. Some twist in the wind, others outdo all expectations; something palpably human, essential, unprojected is born of all of them. The film is hard going when seen in a theatre, but by the time Warhol gets to the transcendent, almost wordless rhapsody of the final garishly colored reels, the trek pays off like a sunburst.