I don't think I've ever read a movie review that has thoroughly convinced me the film in question is shite, so you can imagine my surprise when I read Slate's review of Factory Girl. If Jim Lewis is right, then who exactly is this movie for? Edie Sedgwick, played by famous girlfriend Sienna Miller, comes off as a needy, unbalanced, but wealthy debutante (one might even say dilettante in her case). So okay, anyone who's come across her story probably knew this already. The film's true interest lies in its two other protagonists. But why is Andy Warhol's ghost being dredged through one of the more insiduously slanderous plots I've ever heard of? Who's the art-hating homophobe (and presumably filmm
akers and screenwriters enjoy the arts, no?) who wanted to cast Warhol as a spiteful, asexual tormentor, who ruins a fresh-faced, innocent American beauty with his nefariously avant-garde culture and marginally talented junkie friends (of course, there's almost no actual art on display in the movie, according to Lewis)? Well, (s)he's the same individual who sees Bob Dylan (and there's really no point in arguing over whether "the Musician" is really supposed to be Mr. Zimmerman) as this jackass (but loveably so!) who tries to save said crazy-woman by whisking her away to the natural calm and beauty of the American countryside (upstate New York, naturally) and making love to her in front of a fireplace. That's one big Hollywood joke for you, nevermind that thousands of people under the age of 40 are probably going to believe that these were the exact events, because you know, these are real people after all. Anyway, if you do anything, read just the second page of Lewis' review; it captures precisely the spirit the movie should have aspired to put on screen. That is, the art scene of the 60s (and hell, probably every art scene in the history of the world, ever) was a refuge for social outcasts (yes, Sedgwick included), for the truly talented, the sheep-brained hangers-on, and anyone in between. To reduce it to this kind of schlock is a major disservice to the legacy of that era. I should have just taken the hint when Lou Reed (and Bob Dylan, though he for more obvious reasons), arguably one of the most significant/popular musical icons of the decade, and someone who actually had a prolonged row with Warhol, denounced the movie as "one of the most disgusting, foul things I've seen - by any illiterate retard - in a long time." I'm usually opposed to judging before witnessing myself, but if the review is even half accurate, I'm glad I was saved the trouble. Go see Pan's Labyrinth instead. No cheesy fireplace sex in this one.
akers and screenwriters enjoy the arts, no?) who wanted to cast Warhol as a spiteful, asexual tormentor, who ruins a fresh-faced, innocent American beauty with his nefariously avant-garde culture and marginally talented junkie friends (of course, there's almost no actual art on display in the movie, according to Lewis)? Well, (s)he's the same individual who sees Bob Dylan (and there's really no point in arguing over whether "the Musician" is really supposed to be Mr. Zimmerman) as this jackass (but loveably so!) who tries to save said crazy-woman by whisking her away to the natural calm and beauty of the American countryside (upstate New York, naturally) and making love to her in front of a fireplace. That's one big Hollywood joke for you, nevermind that thousands of people under the age of 40 are probably going to believe that these were the exact events, because you know, these are real people after all. Anyway, if you do anything, read just the second page of Lewis' review; it captures precisely the spirit the movie should have aspired to put on screen. That is, the art scene of the 60s (and hell, probably every art scene in the history of the world, ever) was a refuge for social outcasts (yes, Sedgwick included), for the truly talented, the sheep-brained hangers-on, and anyone in between. To reduce it to this kind of schlock is a major disservice to the legacy of that era. I should have just taken the hint when Lou Reed (and Bob Dylan, though he for more obvious reasons), arguably one of the most significant/popular musical icons of the decade, and someone who actually had a prolonged row with Warhol, denounced the movie as "one of the most disgusting, foul things I've seen - by any illiterate retard - in a long time." I'm usually opposed to judging before witnessing myself, but if the review is even half accurate, I'm glad I was saved the trouble. Go see Pan's Labyrinth instead. No cheesy fireplace sex in this one.
You used to be so amused
ReplyDeleteAt Napoleon in rags and the language that he used
Go to him now, he calls you, you can't refuse
When you got nothing, you got nothing to lose
You're invisible now, you got no secrets to conceal.