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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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All these characters have problems. But i think that is the point. Because the movie is mostly supposed to be about the hotel itself. The people in it are just passing through. The film is showing how the people change, but ideals stay the same. The ideals that the hotel was built on and for the first place. Is it creativity? Or madness? Or apathy? I like all the open spaces in this story. You can fill in whatever you want. It's the sort of spirit of the Chelsea Hotel of old. But most people these days probably won't get it. Or don't want to. Or can't. Nobody dreams about art anymore. Everybody wants a million bucks. Who's life is richer?
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