Viva is triumphant in this 1967 Warhol picture, in which the
Warholness shades over into Paul Morrissey-ness, as if the two of
them got stuck in Jeff Goldberg's transporter from THE FLY and
turned into Warhissey.
There's some stranded-performers-paddling-about stuff that's
more evocative of bad Morrissey than bad Warhol; you might want
to think about ankling after the virtuoso 20-minute opening, in
which a no doubt speed-addled Viva goes on one of the funniest,
most pingingly articulate stream-of-consciousness rants I've ever
encountered anywhere--in movies, books, stand-up, or life. Her
perceptions are like a scorpion's pincers and her timing might
make Richard Pryor blush. Trashy faded royalty, either clinging to
delusions of grandeur or giving it up in a blowsy-old-broad
blowout: that's the quintessence of Warhissey. And Viva serves it
up for you hundred proof, filling the glass so full it runs over and
spills on the bar. The kid knew how to save the day--what a
trouper!
Warholness shades over into Paul Morrissey-ness, as if the two of
them got stuck in Jeff Goldberg's transporter from THE FLY and
turned into Warhissey.
There's some stranded-performers-paddling-about stuff that's
more evocative of bad Morrissey than bad Warhol; you might want
to think about ankling after the virtuoso 20-minute opening, in
which a no doubt speed-addled Viva goes on one of the funniest,
most pingingly articulate stream-of-consciousness rants I've ever
encountered anywhere--in movies, books, stand-up, or life. Her
perceptions are like a scorpion's pincers and her timing might
make Richard Pryor blush. Trashy faded royalty, either clinging to
delusions of grandeur or giving it up in a blowsy-old-broad
blowout: that's the quintessence of Warhissey. And Viva serves it
up for you hundred proof, filling the glass so full it runs over and
spills on the bar. The kid knew how to save the day--what a
trouper!