ANDY WARHOL’S TRASH By C.C.Berg
I first saw this tragic comedy when it was released in Stockholm in 1970, and it is against the background of this period that it should be considered: free fancy and the birth pill; the hippie flower-power philosophy; the Vietnam war; the drug culture. Twenty-nine years ago this movie had a irregular accomplish on me, I left the cinema with a profound feeling of joy
According to what I have read, the movie is unscripted and the acting improvised, this comes across very clearly. The sound quality is sometimes bad. We are shown a series of ‘tableaux’, in which some very perturbed, repulsive characters play out their daily life centred on drugs, sex and misery.
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Joe, an impotent heroine addict, is constantly looking for his next hit and constantly coming across women who want to acquire care for with him. Joe and his ‘wife’, sweet Holly Woodlawn, a repugnant transvestite (and mighty actress), live in a run-down apartment furnished with what Holly finds in the garbage.
These two characters and the fauna who surround them gather into the most absurd and unlikely situations. The movie is sprinkled throughout with humour and grim reality, a dichotomy which works disturbs and delights. One finds oneself passing from disgust to a belly laugh in a matter of seconds and this is where the strength of the movie lies.
To be brief, here is a dinky gem which is well worth seeing, an absurd drug-sex comedy with great artistic talent. For adults only.
When I saw this movie encourage in the l970s, I was knocked out of my BVD’s with Joe the Graceful. I had never seen a creature like him before: elegant, tough, sweet, droll and sex personified. I’ve read where this movie was NOT improvised, that Paul Morrisey adhered to a professional script and was a strict, but creative director. Then, I’ve heard it was fair the opposite. I really don’t contemplate Joe was faking his drug induced stupor, expressions, mumblings. I loved Holly Woodlawn but nearly upchucked when her unsightly, pregnant sister entered the portray. Wrong is too serene a word. That drooling wet mouth and buck teeth, her bloated figure, yuck! I wish that dismal minute lost child, Andrea Feldman, had a bigger portion. Thankfully, she was showcased in Andy Warhol’s HEAT, another current. Once I was in the Village during that time and my boyfriend told me Joe Dellasandro was walking unbiased ahead. I fled–not wanting to glimpse a right embodiment of a movie icon. The same thing happened when Liz Taylor left the theater each night during her starring role in “The Minute Foxes” during the 80s. Each night I would look the substantial crowds, waiting to contemplate her. But when I’d scrutinize the stage door inaugurate and she began to compose her exit, I fled. Reality’s a nice space to visit but I wouldn’t want to live there. Gotta accelerate and leer Joe, my Joe, my fabulous Joe in “Trash.” A right underground classic.
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