The film was probably in its middle part when I chanced upon it at Star Movies, last Saturday. I had a weird feeling that the corpse-painted guy in perpetual dark glasses might be some obscure French artist, so I dropped the hunt for a better show and stuck with it. There aren't a lot of "better" programs in TV these days.
I was still kinda skeptical of the substance of what I was seeing, though, so I was at the ready for the plus sign. And I guess it was just pure luck that I found out, after all the Campbell soup prints, that the Andy guy was none other than the Andy guy I had already in my head. Andy the Warhol. It felt great to know you were right all along.
So the film went, and the Factory girl smoked like a chimney, and there was a lot of drugs, and witty things said, it was exciting and makes you forget about the time. Then came the Bob Dylan character. I have to admit I did not expect to see him there. Although, after googling it, I can say I know better now about why the hell he was there, still it was a great shock to me, and a giggly sort of shock too. I was such a great fan, and seeing him (although not the real deal) appear with an effect of a cameo, made me shriek like a Beatle fan. I even temporarily forgot the guy who played the role of Dylan, although I’m a hands-down fan of the movies he was more popular in. And I've been saying fan in this paragraph a lot, so I'll drop it. Fans, tsktsk tsk...
Actually this is not about Factory Girl, but about my Dylan-worship. And I may have enjoyed the film because of that circumstance. That's all.
But let me say: Like most films about life—except perhaps Jerry Maguire or Forrest Gump—the ending was crushing. It’s more like we still bother to live to pen a “cooler” obituary. I guess I will never recover after James Cox’s “Wonderland.”
