Chelsea Walls

Ethan Hawke's Chelsea Walls would've gotten by me if not for the soundtrack by Jeff Tweedy of Wilco. This film requires a lot from the viewer, and generally speaking, people hate this movie. Much of the dialogue seems extemporaneous, and there is no real plot. But you don't need that, do you?

I sort of like a film that nobody likes. I sat through Heaven's Gate one afternoon a couple of years ago. Chelsea Walls is half the length, and no roller skating!

Chelsea Walls is really just a collection of vignettes that follow a few characters through a day in the life at the Hotel Chelsea. Nothing much happens, but we get this window into life there, decades after the halcyon days. These are people who want to be artists, who talk like artists and live like artists, but they can't quite get there for whatever reason.

After watching Before Sunrise and Before Sunset recently, I remembered this film and the stellar soundtrack comprised mostly of work by Jeff Tweedy. I snagged a used copy with the express purpose of re-watching Chelsea Walls for this project.

I will admit, however, to being very frustrated with this film the first time I watched this several years ago, and I've not seen it since. The film jumps around a lot, and the low budget style (digital video, six figure budget, crap lighting, and talky talk talk talk) will put off a lot of people. I got impatient then, and I'm a little impatient now, but I'm looking for different things.

To be honest, this is exactly the kind of film I needed to follow Chasing Amy. Chelsea Walls captures this bohemian vibe, and yeah, this film is really pretentious, but come on. This is about artists who live at the Hotel Chelsea, as though living there is all it takes. That's pretension, folks. But the mood, the moments, the soundtrack, the performances...

Robert Sean Leonard shows some range here as a songwriter from Minnesota. He performs a couple of songs on the soundtrack, and his voice is thin but competent, as is his playing, but his performance is magnetic. Kris Kristofferson, here well into his seventh decade, turns in one hell of a performance as a shaky, emotional, drunkard writer type. Watching Kristofferson talk on the telephone is enough for me. Rosario Dawson, Vincent D'Onofrio, Steve Zahn, Frank Whaley, and the late Natasha Richardson all make appearances here and turn in great little performances.

I wonder sometimes if I should just sit down and write a film like this, sort of as an exercise, sort of understanding that the script will never see daylight, but will satisfy me artistically. I wonder if artistic satisfaction is actually worth pursuing. What good is art if no one sees what you've done? Self-satisfaction? To thine own self be true?

Ethan Hawke had to know the risks of making this film. For me, watching this film is a kind of affirmation. You can make a film like this, a respectable, different little film, and fly above/around/under the Hollywood machine. Can I just do that?