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.
Review of Chelsea Girls
