For 16 years Miss Bentley has been spending April at an elegant hillside villa on Lake Como. This year, 1937, her London society artist father has recently died and the only other ... See full summary »
At night, baby-face Laura dresses up as a vamp and lets random guys at bars pick her up, just to drug and rob them later. But then someone starts stalking her, and a person close to her is ... See full summary »
In New York's storied Chelsea Hotel, a novelist, a dancer, a painter, a poet, an aged jazz singer, and a young troubadour sort out their personal and artistic lives within walls haunted by the likes of Dylan Thomas, O. Henry, and Sarah Bernhardt. A boozy novelist balances wife, mistress, and stories. A dancer who's a waitress in the basement club chooses between a Hollywood jerk and a local painter. A youth from Minnesota who composes and sings may be the next Bob Dylan. A poet decides to give her feckless boyfriend another chance, even as her eyes tell us she knows what's ahead. An old jazz artist wants to place a bet and share his love for Lady Day. These walls do seem to talk. Written by
You're Bob Dylan? By any chance can I kiss your boot?
Hey! You're from Minnesota, aren't ya? You must be him! Huh?
Seriously dude, fuck off.
Bob! Bob! Bob! Bob! Hey, listen to this, you're not going to believe this, man. I am down in the lobby, right? Right?
There's this guy, puttin' up a paintin'. So, I'm like, helpin' 'em with the ladder and shit. He tells me, he lives here, in a room just like this one... but he's got it all for free. Yup, all he's gotta do is give a paintin'...
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The young poet Audrey is shown writing an epic love ode to her boyfriend. Montage of her on her bare-roomed floor with voice over ("I want to be your wristwatch band so that every pulse throb will subtly remind you of my eternal love", etc.), images of this young Romeo, a spoiled-looking kid with all the depth of a ham sandwich. More poetic verbal images and then the [unintentional] comic moment, seen in a silent image: Romeo and Juliet on the balcony of the Chelsea Hotel where in a Romantic Moment that justifies all her deathless love and poetry....he spits, intentionally, on a sidewalk passerby many feet below. Yes, what Musedom he provides for the piss-elegant poetry of her young being. Priceless! (And, oh yes, a few lines must be dedicated to the usual Kris Kristoferson tired, substance abused, world weary artiste performance: would you want to spend 15 minutes with this drunken dope at a party?)
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