Film Review: Empire (dir by Andy Warhol and John Palmer)


“The Empire State Building is a star!” 

— Andy Warhol, reportedly on the night of filming Empire (1964)

On the night of July 24th, 1964, Andy Warhol, John Palmer, Jonas Mekas, Gerald Malanga, Marie Desert, and Henry Romeny gathered in an office on the 41st floor of the Time-Life Building in New York City.

As the sun went down, they pointed a camera out a window and at the Empire State Building, which was the tallest building in the world at that time.  As they filmed, the upper 30 floors of the building were lit up in honor of the opening of the 1964 World’s Fair.  Behind the Empire State Building, the beacon atop the Metropolitan Life Insurance Company tower blinked on and off.  Otherwise, the entire skyline was invisible in the night.

They started filming at 8:06 pm and stopped at 2:42 am.  Projected in slow motion (which was either per Warhol’s specifications or the result of an error on the part of the projectionist, depending on which source you read), the final film — entitled Empire — lasted for 8 hours and five minutes.  Originally, Warhol planned to have voices in the background but ultimately, Empire would be a silent film.  Three times you can very briefly spot the faces of Warhol and the crew reflected in the window of the office.  When the tower’s skylights were eventually switched off, Warhol filmed darkness.

Believe it or not, Empire is available, in its entirety, on YouTube.  I watched about two and a half uninterrupted hours of it, along with skipping to the brief glimpses of Warhol and to the film’s end.  Believe it or not, Empire does have a definite hypnotic power.  When you spend hours staring at the same image, you do start to become fascinated by things like a blinking beacon or the occasional bird flying by the Empire State Building.  (The film was so grainy that I assumed it was a bird.  It could have just as easily been a speck of dust.)  You find yourself thinking about what it would have been like to be in New York in 1964 and to see that one brilliantly lit tower rising high above the city.  The tower does take on a life of its own.

On that night in 1964, there was no bigger star in New York City than the Empire State Building.

 

4 Shots From 4 Underground Films: Vinyl, Beauty No. 2, Kitchen, Chelsea Girls


4 Shots From 4 Films is just what it says it is, 4 shots from 4 of our favorite films. As opposed to the reviews and recaps that we usually post, 4 Shots From 4 Films is all about letting the visuals do the talking.

We survived Tuesday the 13th!

To celebrate, here are 4 shots from 4 underground films!

4 Shots From 4 Films

Vinyl (1965, directed by Andy Warhol)

Beauty No. 2 (1965, dir by Andy Warhol)

Kitchen (1966, dir by Andy Warhol)

Chelsea Girls (1966, dir by Andy Warhol and Paul Morrissey)

Back To School Part II #2: Vinyl (dir by Andy Warhol)


vinyl1

For my next back to school film, I watched the 1965 underground film, Vinyl!

Now, admittedly, Vinyl does not appear to take place in a high school.  Then again, maybe it does.  All of the action takes place in a cramped corner of a room and we’re never really told, for sure, where the room is located.  All we know is that various characters keep wandering in and out of the static frame while the film’s action unfolds.

The center of the film is Victor (Gerald Malanga) who appears to be in his late 20s but who insists to us that he’s a “J.D,” which stands for juvenile delinquent.  He does what he wants, whether that means lifting weights or enthusiastically dancing.  Victor may be a murderous teenager with a bad attitude but he truly loves rock music.

While Victor dances and occasionally stumbles his way through a monologue about being a J.D, there’s an ever-present audience in the background of the scene.  Occasionally, they seem to be interested in what Victor is saying but, just as often, they seem to be bored with the whole thing.  Sitting off to Victor’s right and smoking through nearly the entire film is the iconic and tragic Edie Sedgwick.  Occasionally, she dances but, for the most part, she’s just observes with an enigmatic half-smile on her face.

Eventually, some men who we assume are the police get tired of Victor dancing and boasting about being a delinquent so they grab him, tie him to a chair, and force him to wear bondage gear while they beat him.  It’s a new, government-sanctioned rehabilitation technique and it’s guaranteed to turn Victor is a responsible member of society.  While they torture him, they play vinyl records in the background and Victor, possibly to his horror though, due to Malanga’s out-of-it performance, it’s often difficult to surmise what’s going on in Victor’s head, realizes that his beloved rock music is now being used to torture him.

All the while, Edie watches from the corner of the screen.  She smokes a cigarette.  She dances.  Sometimes, someone will refill her drink.  She holds a candle for a while.  As a viewer who is more than a little obsessed with the tragically short life of Edie Sedgwick and who relates to her on a personal level, it was occasionally difficult for me to watch because, even in a non-speaking role, Edie’s star power was obvious.

Edie!

Edie!

Of course, Edie isn’t the only person watching as Victor is tortured.  Many people wander in and out of the frame.  (Vinyl lasts 70 minutes and features exactly three shots.)  For the most part, the majority of them regard the torture happening in from with a studied detachment.  In fact, they’re very detachment and they’re very refusal to act in any sort of expected way becomes rather fascinating.  Vinyl goes so far out of it’s way to defy our expectations of what a movie should be that it becomes one of the most watchable unwatchable movies ever made.

Vinyl was directed by Andy Warhol.  Reportedly, it was filmed without any rehearsal and without multiple takes.  Hence, when Malanga stumbles over his lines or occasionally turns his back to camera, the moment is preserved.  When Edie Sedgwick breaks character and laughs, the film keeps on rolling.  When another actor accidentally drops his papers and has to spend half a minute picking them up and trying to get them back in order, it’s saved on camera.  And, because it’s in the final cut, Gerald Malanga forgetting his lines becomes as much a cinematic moment as Humphrey Bogart telling Ingrid Bergman to get on that plane or Clark Gable saying that he didn’t give a damn.   There is no editing and, as a result, there is no protection.  Instead, we just get a group of eccentric outsiders in their amateur glory.  Yes, it’s self-indulgent and deliberately alienating but it’s also undeniably fascinating.  (It helps that, while he may not have been a good actor, Gerald Malanga had an absolutely fascinating face.)  When one watches one of Warhol’s underground films, the question always arises as to whether he was a genius or a con artist.  Vinyl would seem to suggest that he was both.

(“What’s the point of all this?” some viewers may ask.  The point is that it was filmed and now you’re watching and, because he’s at the center of a static frame, Gerald Malanga is now a movie star.)

Though you might have a hard time realizing it from just watching the film, Vinyl was also the first cinematic adaptation of Anthony Burgess’s A Clockwork Orange.  Victor was a stand-in for Alex and Alex’s love of Beethoven is replaced by Victor’s love for Motown.  Six years later, Stanley Kubrick would release his better known adaptation of Burgess’s novel but Andy Warhol, Gerald Malange, and Edie Sedgwick all got there first.

ANDY-WARHOL-VINYL-3

Scenes that I Love: Edie Sedgwick and Gerald Malanga Dance in Andy Warhol’s Vinyl


Today’s scene that I love comes to use from an underground 1965 film called Vinyl!  Believe it or not, this adaptation of A Clockwork Orange was directed by Andy Warhol and predates the famous Kubrick film by 6 years!

This is a film that I hope to get a chance to review very soon but until then, check this out scene of Edie Sedgwick and Gerald Malanga dancing to Nowhere to Run by Martha and The Vandellas.

Watching her in this scene, it’s sad to think that, in just six years (and at the same time that Stanley Kubrick was releasing his version of A Clockwork Orange), Edie Sedgwick would die at the age of 28.  Like all of us, she deserved much better than what the world was willing to give her.

Edie Sedgwick (1943 -- 1971)

Edie Sedgwick (1943 — 1971)