'Chelsea Girls'
Fri/12-Sat/13, Castro Theatre

THE DEFINITIVE STATEMENT from Andy Warhol's intermediate adventures in filmmaking – between early silent efforts and the later features that for all practical purposes were "by" Paul Morrissey – Chelsea Girls remains overwhelming on almost every level. Is it more artless than Art? Where do the fantastical "real-life" personalities of the 1966 Factory "superstars" end and the quasi-narrative invention begin? Who was on what at the time? Are the indiscriminate zoomings of Morrissey's tripodal camera actually part of a plan? Does it even matter what juxtapositional order the 12 reels – variously color and B&W, all with crappy "vérité" sound recording – are shown in? Whatever. Mythology loves a mystery, and Chelsea Girls is mythological as hell. The dual-image, double-projected, roughly three-and-a-half-hour avant-epic trains shaky focus on a parade of sordid microdramas set (mostly) in NYC's famed junky-artist flophouse, the Chelsea Hotel. Abusive father confessor "Pope" Ondine spews venom at screechy Ingrid Superstar, then toward the offscreen crew. Soon-dead (like many here) babyhunk Eric Emerson, monumentally stoned, muses on his naked body's infantile wisdoms until he's swallowed whole by psychedelic lighting. Nico, that Madonna of Teutonic fatalism, endlessly trims her bangs as prelude to 30 minutes of vacuously picturesque weeping. Mario Montez, in full glamazon drag, sings show tunes to unidentified, sedated gayboy-toys marooned on a Central Casting troll's bed. Arguably the shiningest star among Mylar superstars here is then-Velvet Underground/Exploding Inevitable go-go dancer and future L.A. multihyphenate (as fascinating actor, George Grosz-like painter, and tersely vivid published author) Mary Woronov, who dominates several sequences. Her cobra-womanly "Hanoi Hannah" barks orders ("You will answer the questions according to instruction!"), reducing one underage blond to recurrent tears. People shoot up. Golden showers and "lesbianic tendencies" are discussed. This may all seem very camp now, but it was incredibly "dirty" to mainstream critics suddenly forced to confront underground cinema – which Girls brought overground by transferring to select commercial venues. Hollywood shuddered, fearing these freaks might actually co-opt its gig. (Andy hoped as much, but it was not to be.) Nonetheless, Girls is a beaut of a beast. Crystallizing the methadrine negative-creepiness that distinguished Big Apple counterculture from the larger nation's lysergic flower-child vibe, it's both bedlam and boredom, voyeurism and sexual loathing, a party for burned-out society B-girls and sad sinewy rent boys. See Rep Clock for show times. (Dennis Harvey)