In 1965, underground films meant jiggly dancing, abstract moving images, or Warholian still shots. It would be one more year before John Waters was kicked out of NYU for smoking Pot, and six more before “Pink Flamingos” took New York City by storm.
Walter Cronkite is astonished by the whole thing, as he reports in his classic baritone and numerous pregnant pauses, copied by every NPR reporter as standard audience-grabbing delivery. The “underground artists” including Jonas Mekas and Stan Brakhage appear in coats and ties and offer professorial commentaries on the underground movement.
Only Warhol gives a whiff about how things were changing, as he glares off camera, and mumbles his absurd answers while scratching his acne-covered cheeks, oblivious to Mr. and Mrs. American Suburbanite. This and the gyrating blonde, Edie Sedgewick let America know that the swinging ’60s were coming on full blast as they hunkered down in front of the TV with their TV dinners on their TV dinner trays to see what the hell was happening next.
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