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.
Review of Chelsea Girls
