Chelsea Girls (1966)

reviewed by
Shane Burridge


The Chelsea Girls (1966) 195m

The best thing that came out of this gabfest was the title song recorded as

an afterthought by Nico the following year on her debut album. Making good

with his statement about everybody in the future having fifteen minutes of

fame, Andy Warhol placed a camera in various rooms (some in NY's Chelsea

Hotel) and had a bunch of his friends do or say whatever they could think of

until it ran out of film (his excuse: he was commissioned to do it). Could

have been a good idea, if any of them had talent or even the inclination to

participate. As it is they mostly rag on one another, mutter, scream, sneer

or just clam up (their excuse: they were high), giving the proceedings about

as much impact as a videotape of your relatives in the kitchen, unless you

describe 'impact' as attrition by three hours of split-screen ranting.

If some unknown schmuck had made this movie it would have barely earned a

second glance, but because it's Warhol it has seen much discussion. It's

art!  It's anti-art!  It's voyeurism!  Art as voyeurism!  Social 

documentation! Snapshots of the underground drug scene! A redefining of

film aesthetics! How about just another Warhol put-on? I can't believe the

eulogizing this film has generated - as if nobody had ever before thought of

turning a camera on someone and letting it roll uninterrupted; as if the

minimalism of the enterprise was supposed to be a spit in the eye of cinema

hegemony; as if these voices from the margins had never been heard before.

I'm all for independent film, but it bugs me that anti-projects such as this

come built-in with their own failsafe, i.e. if they lie beyond conventional

cinema boundaries then they lie beyond critical ones. For example, it could

be argued that the voices in CHELSEA GIRLS have nothing to say (as

raconteurs, quite simply, they suck); however the rebuttal is that the very

point of the film is that no-one has anything to say, or if they do, that

they are incapable of articulating it. Well, I've spread baloney as thin as

the next guy in a number of academic discourses and I always circle back to

Orwell's comment that there are some things so absurd that only an

intellectual could believe them. Warhol may have made his name as an artist

but in time he became more famous simply for being famous, confounding

critics who weren't sure how to separate the contexts of art and celebrity.

The creation and reception of CHELSEA GIRLS has far more to say about fame

than it has about film. On those grounds, at least, it is significant.

As unwieldy as CHELSEA GIRLS may be it attracted a much larger audience than

other films of the avant-garde, although I suspect it was the novelty of the

simultaneous projection that caught people's attention. One theory behind

the split-screen gimmick was that if you found one frame boring then you

could look at the other instead. Good idea, but it doesn't take into

account that usually both frames are boring, lending credence to the second

theory that it was to reduce the film's six-hour running time by half.

Warhol's directorial style (a paradoxical term, as his style was to offer no

direction) was the basis for all his early improvisational films, but is

wasted here on a largely talentless collection of Factory cohorts (or

Factory rejects). When left to improvise, the subjects largely repeat the

comments of others, who in turn keep rewording their own statements ad

nauseum. After twelve reels of talking heads there's still nothing as

memorable as the moment in WOMEN IN REVOLT where a man's pubic hair

accidentally catches alight after a girl throws a match at him. But if

watching some guy talk about sweat for ten minutes turns you on, then by all

means, check it out.
sburridge@hotmail.com
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