Forget the throwaway title, this documentary about the wayward, moneyed Brigid Berlin is the equal of Terry Zwigoff's Crumb; a similarly troubling yet funny biography.<br /><br />Berlin is astonishing in her obsessiveness and her audacity. She manages to convincingly take credit for many of Warhol's ideas, and demonstrates a sophisticated understanding of what it means to be a media construction whom no one actually knows (a la warhol). Her creative work ethic is a refutation of other artist/poseurs who want to avoid actual thought and/or effort.<br /><br />Personal highlights in the film: Berlin's pained return to the Chelsea hotel and the bankruptcy of trying to revisit the past / The examination of a jam-packed apartment with fastidiously organized Polaroid pictures / The penis book / The tone-for-tone reperformance of lousy, bourgeois parenting lectures / And of course Brigid's failure to resist Key Lime pie, while representing (to her) a major personal failure, is the funniest thing in the whole movie. I was laughing till I hurt.<br /><br />Berlin makes her difficult personality look like a great time, and the only reasonable way to proceed through the absurdities of western culture.