Movie Review: Factory Girl

Sienna Miller as Edie

The REAL Edie

I have to admit, I didn't know squat about Edie Sedgwick before I saw this movie. I mean, I knew that she died young, and that she had something to do with Andy Warhol in the sixties, but aside from that, not much. In truth, I think I had her mixed up with Jean Seberg. But I saw a preview for this new movie, and thought, well, that could be interesting, so I hauled Stephanie with me to see it.

This isn't a great film, indeed, one might wonder why the producers even felt they had to make it. The writing at times feels careworn, and the subject doesn't hold our attention in the way a biography of say, Vivien Leigh or Coco Chanel would, but in terms of its performances, it is compelling, and given its limitations, it performs very well. It stars Sienna Miller as Edie Sedgwick, and a nearly unrecognizable Guy Pearce as Warhol, and a surprisingly convincing Hayden Christensen as a nameless character simply called the Musician, but who is obviously a fictional carbon copy of a young Bob Dylan.

Being a bio-flick, the movie, not surprisingly, is done in flashback, with Sedgwick talking to a counsellor or shrink in a rehab clinic, recalling her days as a young art school dropout all set to take New York City by storm. She meets up with Warhol, and becomes his muse, and seems to break through his near pathological remoteness, only to have it rebound on her as she becomes more and more dependent on drugs and her life becomes increasingly chaotic and confused.

Sienna Miller, (whom I've previously never thought much of) is simply staggering as Sedgwick. It helps I suppose that she bears an uncanny resemblance to the late model, but more than that, she has an ability to make you care about this poor little rich girl who supposedly had it all, and then threw it away. That Sedgwick was damaged by her family, and in particular by her father is undeniable, but what catches your heartstrings is how Miller makes you believe Edie is fighting to keep her head above all of that childhood trauma, and trying to get past it. When she argues with Christensen's Musician about his dismissal of the triviality of the life she leads, she keeps her head and argues forcefully about his hypocrisy in being the singer-poet of the people, who happens to also revel in being a superstar having his picture splashed in all the newspapers. Edie might be vulnerable and self-destructive, and make appallingly bad choices, but in Miller's hands, she makes it clear that she is never stupid.

This isn't an easy movie to watch. If you have a phobia about needles, it will be that much harder. But it is a fascinating viewpoint into an era that for all of its supposedly glamourous and wildly innovative art scene, was really a very amorphous public spectacle of screwed up narcissists who called themselves artists. Warhol may have been a genius, (Edie certainly thought he was) but in this movie he's more of an emotional vampire, so remote in himself that he floods his work with other people's emotion in order to make it live. Edie in that sense was made to order for him. He exploits her and exploits her until she's so broke, she's reduced to doing drugged out pornography to survive. The facts of their relationship are probably more complicated than the movie has us believe, ie; "artist takes young innocent, turns her into his muse and then discards her" but it does make for a valid dramatic arc, and Pearce and Miller perform their roles flawlessly.

The ending does feel a bit forced and cliched, in that we've seen this ending on so many bio-pics before, but given the limits of biography, perhaps that can't be avoided. It isn't a film on par with Lawrence of Arabia, Iris, Basquiat, Before Night Falls, or even Frances, but it is performed well and movingly.

I don't know that it will be a big hit, as there is a cold cynicism that falls on the movie halfway through, and a sense of grimacing horror that hits the audience at the same time Edie starts to realize what is happening to her, and how Warhol is exploiting her. By this point, one realizes that everyone is exploiting everyone, and that in retrospect, Edie in the beginning exploited Warhol just as much as he would eventually exploit her. No one is exempt from blame in this world, the film seems to say, and if you're not a cutthroat Machiavellian bastard, you just won't survive. Edie certainly wasn't, therefore, it was only a matter of time before the horror consumed her.

Throughout the rest of the movie, that sense of horror never goes away, and by the end of the it, we are relieved just to be away from these people and their vampiric ways. That being said, it is a remarkable look into the sixties art scene, but as a moral fable of desiring notoriety as a substitute for love and as an exploration of the vapid and amorphous nature of fame, it does leave one with a significantly sour taste in one's mouth. You'll admire this movie for the acting, but it won't leave you feeling particularly good about humanity.

As an aside, it would be fascinating to do a double-feature of this movie and Julian Schnabel's Basquiat, about Jean Michel Basquiat, who was, ironically, another of Warhol's protogees who met an untimely end through drugs as well.

Or better yet, perhaps a double feature with Breakfast at Tiffany's.

Homophobia at the Hoops

Tim Hardaway's homophobic radio rant a few weeks ago about John Amaechi coming out, have brought the issue of homophobia in professional sports once again into the spotlight. Most days, when I see or hear of another gay or lesbian person accomplishing something great and raising the bar a few more inches for the rest of us, it heartens me when I think of how far gay and lesbian and transgendered people have come in the last forty years. Then, when I turn on the news and have to listen to a creep like Hardaway give vent to such shockingly ignorant and hateful views, I am shaken awake once again at how far we have still to go, before being gay is seen as being about as controversial everywhere as being left-handed or a Republican.

What really gets my goat though, is when I hear gay people disparaging events like Gay Pride with a bored, "seen it all, been there, done that" kind of attitude. Or worse yet, when I hear those gays and lesbians who would do away with gay ghettos and neighbourhoods that are predominantly gay because they argue, "it marginalizes us", I see red.

Don't they realize that attitudes like Hardaway's would marginalize us into non-existence if they had their way? Events like Gay Pride and places and neighbourhoods where its O.K. to walk hand in hand with your boyfriend (or girlfriend) are terribly important for young people just coming out, who are feeling fragile in that process and need a place and environment of emotional safety so that they can breathe easily about being who they are. Especially if they grew up in remote areas where just being gay can get you killed.

Attitudes like Hardaway's remind us that there is a large contingency who would like nothing more than to be rid of us. It's discouraging, but it's also a healthy wake-up call. We're not out of the woods yet, kids. We've got to keep moving forward and fighting for equality just like every other group that has ever been ranked second class has ever had to do. We can't afford to take anything for granted, and we can't afford to forget that hateful attitudes like Hardaway's are out there, because they certainly won't.

For a full view of the story, log on here;

http://sports.espn.go.com/nba/news/story?id=2766213

Portrait of the Artist by the Subject, Part Deux

So here I am sipping tea, halfway through my vacation, eating Peek Frean cookies at my artiste du monde friend James Huctwith's studio. We're enjoying dull gossippe, listening to Carole Pope wailing away on ye olde CD player, (James is a Luddite, lending to the antiquarian bohemia that is his studio proper) while he is hard at work on his newest epic, a triptych painting called, (at this point anyway) THE LIVING. To describe it is nearly impossible, save that it is massive in its dimension and scope. It is by far the most ambitious piece he's ever attempted, with each panel measuring five by four feet, (and there are three of them don't forget, hence the term triptych) with about thirty people in it. Needless to say, it is big.

James says it's a springboard for even bigger future paintings, one ostensibly called THE MONUMENT, which will measure about twenty by forty feet, with something like seventy people in it. God knows HOW he'll fit it in here. He says the photo shoot will be one BIG party. Stay tuned for further developments.

However, I love the title, THE MONUMENT. It's epic. I like epic. No, I love epic. Which is probably why I love James' works. Like Tony Kushner's plays, they aren't safe and all nicey-nice, in a way that won't shock the suburban bourgeoisie set. Rather, they leap outward without looking and have the lovely effect of shocking the hell out of you while they do it. But they're not ostentatiously shocking in an adolescent "let's piss off the old folks" kind of way. There is a definitive psychological structure at work in these paintings, with specific historical references, both artistically and thematically. Still, they can pack a transgressive shock for the uninitiated. Or perhaps that's the illusion. The truth is, like any great work of art, they are seemingly effortless, but very subtly built upon a solid bedrock of structure (James just volunteered that he isn't wearing underwear - how RUDE! Told you he was epic.) both technically and thematically that quite easily holds up the emotional chaos the canvas manifests. In short, he knows his stuff.

Oddly enough, James says he finds the thematically darker canvasses, with their maelstroms of chaos, easier to paint than the lighter themes he's done in recent years. I, not being a painter, cannot understand exactly what he means, but perhaps on a broader, more intuitive level I get it. The starker, deeper colours of life are oftimes much easier to see clearly, perhaps because their emotional spectrum is more vivid. The more light, fantastical and witty paintings are more gossamer-like, harder to catch perhaps in their tone, because of their fancifulness.

I'd love to see how he'd paint A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM for example. I imagine it would be more difficult than say, MACBETH. The emotional colours are much more varied and perhaps not as vividly stark, but more spread out in their spectrum. The darker canvasses have a more definite, honest emotional quality to them, he says. It's the darker notes he likes to play in, the same qualities people like his hero, Caravaggio, liked to explore. Let us not forget that he was the Renaissance world's bad-boy painter too in his day, forever and always in trouble with the Church because he liked hauling in his newest boytoy or street hustler to play an archangel or young apostle. So it's safe to say that James comes by this altar tweaking naturally. He says he can't count the number of times people have admired his work and technique and then said in the same breath, "Why can't you paint something NICE?"

They forget that the great works of art, like Caravaggio's INCREDULITY OF ST.THOMAS for example, is not, strictly speaking, a NICE painting. In fact, James would argue that it is an incredibly perverse picture, but it is nonetheless a masterpiece. As James says of that painting, "the last time I put my fingers in a man's side to see if he was alive, was in a leather dungeon!"

The fact is, in any work of art, the themes that do not challenge and perhaps offend us, do not have achance of making us think, and therefore help propel us forward as a society. Safety is on the side of the mediocre and inevitably the established, and while it may be comfortable, and look great over the couch, it's doubtful that it will make you think.

As James says, he thinks that his paintings, viewed through a pre-twentieth century lens, would be viewed as quasi-religious works. He says he's bemused that people always seem to view his paintings as being about sex, when he sees them as primarily psychological in tone. But given that sexuality rules most of our viewpoints in the twentieth century, it's not altogether surprising. This latest painting, the triptych I spoke of earlier, isn't about sex, even though there are a lot of half naked men grappling and struggling with unknown battles within it. It has an almost exhausted sensuality to it, but that isn't sexual, strictly speaking. It isn't a carnal painting at all. I suspect early 18th century critics would not be shocked by these paintings, but would however see immediate echoes back to ancient Greece and the heroic sensuality of their art. Don't forget "gay" sexuality as defined by today's standards, is a twentieth century invention. Such a definition didn't exist then, which is why so many of James' paintings defy a strictly "gay" category. The psychological vantage point from which he conceives them predates the critical point of view by which most observers regard these paintings. To wit; they're missing the point, but then again, this is logical, as the point predates them. It's this sleight of hand which makes these paintings so endlessly fascinating. Among other things, they challenge the viewer to rethink how he views art and sensuality, as well as sexuality in the context of time. And what's wrong with challenging the old bean every now and again?

Ah, don't take my word for it darlings, marvel at the masterpieces with a cuppa tea and some cookies. You won't need anything stronger, take my word for it.

Hiding in the Snow (For the Most Part)

I got out bed for THIS!?!?


Well, I am glad I decided to take THIS week off. Among other things, it's afforded me the opportunity (except for myriad trips to the gym) to stay inside and marvel at the miracle of modern heating while the outside world freezes to death. Now I realize I should have taken two weeks off because this weather obviously isn't going to clear up over the weekend, sod it all. I think this is where a lottery win or a trust fund would come in handy. I'd just hibernate away until spring, and/or travel someplace hot, like joining Brian in Puerto Vallarta. He's eating by himself anyway, by the sounds of his blog, and I could be nasty to all of those wingnuts who are hassling him over joining a timeshare. That and I could work on my tan. I know, I know, its like my abs, and triceps and pecs; WHAT tan!??

I haven't worked on my play (bad Trev!) or done all the myriad laundry I meant to (not so bad, I've done a fair bit) but I did go grocery shopping, and bought healthy stuff, so that I don't die at the gym. Now I'm about to embark on a scary concept. My first ever beef stew in my crockpot. I hope the sucker works. The stew I mean, not the crock pot. Well, that too, but I think it does.

I'm off to the gym tomorrow morning to try my new conditioning program. Barely balancing my ass on a giant rubber ball while trying to lift dumbbells over my head among other things. It's because I have no, zilch, nada, niente, pas un peu de coordination to speak of, possums, and my (get this technical talk) "right deltoid" is significantly stronger than my left, (ha! My whole left side is practically atrophied!) and I have to work more on my left to even the balance. In the meantime, my biceps are filing for divorce. Everytime I extend my arms, they scream in pain and agonieeeee, the likes of which haven't been heard since the last season of Canadian Idol.

Anyhoo, Arctic Tundraesque conditions or not, I suppose I should enjoy the rest of this snow-blocked vacation while I can. There's only four days of it left......ack!!!

Books, Books and MORE Books!!!

I've never been known for doing anything by halves. Demi-quarters perhaps, but never by halves. So I ran out of reading (not really, but I always think I do) about a week ago, and immediately, upon a walk with a friend decided, that I simply HAD to have a copy of Anne Somerset's ELIZABETH I. Well, why not? It was well received, and as much as I know about good Queen Bess, I didn't actually own a biography of her, so I thought, "It's on sale, pourquoi pas?"

PAR CE-QUE, (as I realized upon entering my library-esque wee domicile) I have more books than cooking ware. I have more books than clothes and furniture combined!!! If I were to get hit by a getaway tamale wagon tomorrow, all my family and friends would find left of me would be books.

"Gee," they'd say, "He must have really liked to read."
"Too bad he wasn't so good at domestic chores." another would chime in grimly, "Look at those dishes!"

Nevertheless, it's true. I am not a domestic god of the first order, that much is clear. Actually, I'm not a domestic god of any order, at least not one that would admit me as a member. But I do love books. I love the touch and look of them, and seeing them all crowded into my bookcases gives me a feeling of serenity and security few other things do. I love libraries for the same reason. They are architectural masterpieces of learning, and should be hallowed I think, far beyond any and all places of worship. It is no small wonder that it is said that Plutarch wept when he heard the Great Library at Alexandria had been ransacked and burned by Caesar's occupying forces. All the knowledge of the ancient world was stored there, or so it was believed. Who wouldn't weep?

Books do, in many ways feel more real to me than the outside world. Aside from my family, they were the earliest figures which would inform me of the life I would someday lead, or hope to lead, far beyond the environs in which I grew up. Books informed me of unknown lands and worlds, of lives wrote large and lost, possibility and betrayal, damnation and redemption. They kept me sane through a tumultuous adolescence, and gave me figures, both real and imaginary whom I kept close to my heart as role models and hopeful avatars. They informed my secret being, and kept my internal world that I told no one of, alive and full of hope. These tomes fed my soul and were as real to me, and as necessary to my well-being in the real world as oxygen was.

So now I look around my little apartment, surrounded by them, and I wonder, what in God's name do I buy more for? Good heavens, I haven't even read all of the ones I have. I mean, really, it's ludicrous; in addition to ELIZABETH, I have one, two, three, four, no, maybe five books on Christopher Marlowe I have to read, (research for a play I'm thinking of writing) several books by, (including a biography of) Katherine Anne Porter, and if that weren't enough, I have also LOOK HOMEWARD ANGEL, by Thomas Wolfe, which I'm two-thirds of the way through now. And as usual, I'm reading two or three at once.

It's not that I don't find them all interesting, it's just that somedays, I don't feel like hearing South Carolina accents in fits of liquor-ridden madness, or I grow weary of hearing of yet another intrigue in Elizabeth's many varied court, or I just want to laugh instead of being appalled. So I switch. Books are like extended lunchdates with various suitors one imagines, some are delightful at times, at other times, tiresome. If one varies the company, one never grows bored. That's what books are like for me. An endless recourse to the universe; always changing and never (unless it's a bad book) stalled. Rather what life should be like.

I'll likely sigh and wonder (in this coming week off) what on earth I'm doing with them all, when I go to dust the shelves and try and set them all in order. I may cull through them mercilessly and try and get rid of the ones I don't want, to make room for the new, because as sure as gun's iron, I'll be out there before long, gasping aloud at some new treasure I didn't know existed, and saying to myself, "Plutarch's Lives??!? In HARDCOVER? With illustrations by Aubrey Beardsley?!? I just HAVE to have it!!!"

Sigh. So you see? It's a vicious cycle.

They Put Me on the Rack....

Medieval torture wasn't like this. O.K. Maybe Cutbert Simson had it worse, but not by much. No, my day of painful comeuppance, well, it's coming. At full speed, and louder than a Tony Kushner play hollering for painful retributions not yet arrived.

To wit; my body is going to be going through a formerly unimagined spate of pain and aching muscles in the coming weeks. Yup. I've succumbed to the inevitable; after years of stubbornly insisting that my (bellowed loudly a la Kay Thompson in Funny Face) "INEFFABLE CHARM" was all I needed to get me a boyfriend/husband/or simply laid, and only ending up with a well used copy of Crockpot Cooking For One to show for it, I typically realized (a good twenty years too late) that perhaps physical allure might also play a factor in landing some poor unsuspecting worm.

Ergo, I caved; and another gay boy goes to the gym.

Ho ho, I can hear you laughing, and clapping your grubby mitts with glee from here. "Trev sweating, Trev complaining, Trev struggling with five pound weights a sturdy four year old could lift." Oh yes, I can hear all the commentary as if I'd written it myself. Oh wait, I just did. Nevertheless....my friends were delighted with my newfound excursion into (physical) masochism, err....fitness.

My straight friend Steven smiled sweetly and said he was so happy I was getting in touch with my demographic. I snarled and called him a metrosexual throwback, and just because he was dating a hipster Audrey Hepburn, was no reason to call me a demographic.

He just kept smiling. Fink.

At any rate, it wasn't only just getting laid that propelled me back to the land of barbells and ab crunches. Mortality was blinking at me from the (fairly) far distant horizon. I mean, I AM turning forty darlings, in sixteen months mes cheres, and as God as my witness, I'll be damned if I'm going to see that day show up without me having my 28 inch waist back again. (O.K. In a pinch, I'll settle for thirty.) Plus I imagine that this exercise thing is good for ye olde mortal coil, to quote the melancholy Dane. (I wonder if Hamlet would have been any happier with a steady exercise regimen and perhaps a little more radiant sunlight).

My friends David (workout wiz and training sadist extraordinnaire) and Robert (karate expert, he has something like a zillion blackbelts and still reminds me of Fosse with all of his kicks) go with me every day to the gym at 6:00 a.m. (yes, I know, SIX! Pick your jaws up off the floor kids, its rude to stare...) to partake in this ritual of unalloyed frivolity and glee.

Today I did triceps (tricky little devils, I didn't even know they were there) and after myriad attempts at trying to figure out exactly how to hold the end of the dumbell for a (get this) "BEHIND THE HEAD STRETCH", in which David almost lost his mind, hollering, "No!No!No! You hold it like THIS!"

"HOW? Like THIS?"

"NOOOO!" (repeat the above exchanges seventeen times until completely mad)

I finally got the knack of it, but its interesting how ISOLATED the body has to be in order to be able to work out the proper muscle, and in the process, not injure oneself. You really have to be very precise. It reminded me of acting on camera, and as anyone who knows me knows, coordination and physical precision is not a plaudit I am noted for having.

Oy gevalt.

I have a fitness assessment test tomorrow, to see just how badly out of shape I really am. Hopefully they (the gym folk) won't feel completely defeated and take up selling auto insurance in despair. After all, not everyone who ended up on the rack, died. Some of them actually got a little taller.