The vignettes and stories shift subtly from those of childhood to those of Curtis’s early creative endeavors. Curtis had already finished a play and appeared on stage by age seventeen. At this early age, Curtis had become friends with a creative group of actors, musicians, playwrights, and theater people who enabled him/her to see many of her/his own future projects to fruition. The film itself mirrors this community driven atmosphere, as it is a collaborative effort between Highberger; Paul Serrato, who composed for Curtis’s shows and scores the documentary; and the work of photographer Jack Mitchell, who took legendary photos of Curtis.

 

Highberger illustrates how the theater owners and directors Curtis knew were intrinsic to the New York underground performance scene in the sixties and seventies.  Ellen Stewart, founder of La Mama Experimental Theater Club was a mother figure to Curtis. John Vaccaro, founder of Play-House of the Ridiculous, was also instrumental in Curtis’s stage career as a performer and a playwright.  Both Stewart and Vaccaro describe how everything from the lighting to the scenery was created by the actors, writers, and directors—sometimes with help from other artists in their immediate community.  The D. I. Y. mentality that would soon be a distinguishing feature of punk music began in these experimental theaters, just as Curtis’s trademark torn-up glittered couture would be echoed in the persona of David Bowie and the lipstick decadence of the New York street scene and music to come. 

 

In the documentary, Vaccaro bemoans how much has changed in the underground art scenes of today.  “Nobody was thinking about money,” Vaccaro insists, “we were putting on shows.” He goes on to call their work “truly experimental,” lamenting that “there’s nothing experimental now.”  In Vaccaro’s view, the limited ability of today’s avant-garde artists to accomplish goals has much to do with a shift in values. The spaces that might embrace such material today, Vaccaro laments, have put themselves out of the reach of underground artists.  “Nowadays,” gripes Vaccaro, “they want five, ten-thousand dollars a week… [when] we did shows for twenty dollars. Now you can’t even afford to do off-off Broadway.”           

 

As the interviewees discuss Curtis’s success in theater and exposure through the Warhol films, both of which peak from the mid-sixties through mid-seventies, the tales invariably turn to comparisons of Jackie Curtis with her avant-garde superstar contemporaries Holly Woodlawn and Candy Darling.  The three often lived together, worked together on many experimental performances and theater productions, and were the legendary subjects of Lou Reed’s song “Walk on the Wild Side.”  Photographer Jack Mitchell remembers Jackie as “by far the most cerebral of the lot.”  He explains that Candy was “very serious about her beauty and glamour and her clothes,” while Holly “had…the zaniest sense of humor of all the girls.”  Author Steven Watson offers deeper insight on the difference between Jackie and Candy.  Watson views Jackie as “especially important” because “he really is…questioning all sorts of stuff about sexuality and gender in many ways that Candy’s not questioning it.”  He concludes that “Candy is wanting it,” whereas with Curtis “it’s as if the idea of what your sex is is just a reflection of your feeling of your personality that day.” Many of the interviewee’s comments paint Curtis as a much more creatively powerful figure than Warhol himself.  Warhol collaborator and director Paul Morrissey comments on the ease with which Warhol accepted his own suggestions, recalling, “I never remember saying anything to Andy where he didn’t say it was a good idea. He was so glad to have any ideas, because he didn’t come up with any himself.” 

 

Everyone in the film recalls with fondness how the 1970 rehearsals for Curtis’s play Vain Victory: The Vicissitudes of the Damned became a nexus where underground artists and celebrities gathered to watch, contribute to the production, or celebrate with the cast.  The excitement preceding its opening no doubt led to its success in 1971.  Process is seen as important as product in this sense.  Paul Serrato, who composed music for Vain Victory, is one of many who recollect the atmosphere during the run of that frenetic production.  Serrato aptly describes Vain Victory as “the downtown answer to Hair.”  He explains that “Hair was a countercultural hit for the mainstream audiences uptown,” while Vain Victory “was the countercultural statement of the people who really were involved with the counter culture, who were the counter culture.” 

 

The documentary concludes with a focus on Curtis’s drug use and eventual absurd and untimely end.  The few times camera tricks are used in the film denote altered states. Early in the film, for example, words transposed over images of Curtis performing swirl over a noisy crescendo of sounds.  The documentary’s final section is ushered in with a different allusion to mind-altering substances: a camera pans across the necks of bottles nestled at a bar, followed by a close-up of prescription bottles spilling artfully over a grey table.  These images are set to Tomlin’s after-school-special narration: “Unfortunately,” she declares, “like many creative artists, Jackie struggled with alcohol and drug addiction.”   However, this odd plastic scene evaporates and is replaced by a translucent fade-in to Penny Arcade, who once more roots the film in the sincerity of those who truly knew and loved Curtis.