Factory Girl
15, 90 mins

One can only wonder what Edie Sedgwick and Diane Arbus might have made of each other had their paths crossed in the 1960s. Edie was the original wild child. Diane was a famous photographer of human freaks. They came from old-money families who publicly hated their art. They shared a grim fate. Neither had much faith in her own talent, and they killed themselves with barbiturates in July and November, 1971. Sedgwick was 28; Arbus had 20 more years in the bank.

Scripts about both women have percolated through Hollywood ever since. But the release of their biopics in the same week is weird to the point of disconcerting. Not least because the proximity of the films exposes one half of a very tired genre.

Factory Girl , George Hickenlooper’s conventional biopic of Edie Sedgwick, is the posthumous edition of Hello! magazine. Lou Reed branded the film-makers as “whoremongers” before the cameras had time to blink. Bob Dylan Inc threatened to sue unless his name was erased from the credits, and his mumbling alter ego (preposterously played by Hayden Christensen) was reduced to a shapeless cameo. I can’t say I feel particularly sorry for Hickenlooper, who manages to make Edie Sedgwick’s 15 minutes of fame even less interesting than it actually was. The flighty Wasp, who started the fashion for being famous for absolutely nothing at all, is played with refreshing abandon by Sienna Miller. She is effortless as the rich and frivolous It girl who hijacks parties like Paris Hilton. The eyes are kohl black, the hair a blonde bob, and the brain worryingly empty. Miller’s hiccupy drawl is exactly half a beat too mannered, which is actually quite brilliant acting.

Warhol falls instantly in love with this shallow vision of money and class. “Andy was intoxicated by the very world I wanted to escape from,” mourns Edie from a mental home in 1970. The young Sedgwick is smitten by the tin foil that decorates Warhol’s famous Factory — the studio where he promises to turn her into a superstar.

They spend an entire reel telephoning each other from their respective bath tubs. “I wonder if people are going to remember us?” flatlines Warhol. It’s good clean tabloid fun until Sedgwick discovers a Folk Singer “with something to say” (Dylan, of course). The jealous Warhol drops his muse like a hot brick. Edie drops an enormous amount of acid, and dissolves into a seedy mess. But not before a corny romp with that world-famous bohemian Hayden Christensen.

Miller is a genuine surprise as the damaged star. But the film leaves her very much as it finds her: a clueless naive. If it wasn’t for Guy Pearce and his magnetic Warhol the film would sink like a stone. The actor looks as if someone had mistaken him for a snooker cue and carefully chalked his head in flour. Pearce mimics Warhol’s vocal tics and neuroses to perfection. It’s not the first time that a biopic has relied on those skills.

The clever spin that Steven Shainberg applies to Fur: An Imaginary Portrait of Diane Arbus is not to treat the material like a biopic at all. In fact it would be difficult to attribute a single frame of this quirky fantasy to Patricia Bosworth’s earnest biography if it wasn’t for the title credits. This is a genuinely novel way to explore a life that has famously eluded any conventional covers. Perhaps the biggest surprise is that it is the male director of Secretary who has painted this almost feminist fairytale of Arbus.

Nicole Kidman is the pinched and lonely wife, Diane (pronounced Dee-Anne). Her sensible husband makes a living by photographing kitsch adverts for catalogues. Diane’s rich and stifling parents provide the biggest contracts via the fur trade. “I take light-readings and iron clothes,” explains Diane to a studio full of bored clients. You could choke on the tedium.

The arrival of a mysterious masked stranger in the large apartment above sparks a bizarre and touching fable. It rapidly transpires that Robert Downey Jr has retired as the main attraction from a freak show. He is carpeted from head to foot in hair; a genetic accident has made him capable of winning Crufts.

The beautiful Diane is mesmerised by this beast. A sharp, almost sexual, desire to photograph him opens a metaphorical door. Downey’s huge brown eyes and sophisticated manners are the disarming tools. His freakery empowers Diane. His life on the fringe (with weird and misshapen friends to match) is a terrific source of visual drama. Nothing needs to be spelled out. What Shainberg captures on film is as familiar as the Brothers Grimm, and yet as strange as David Lynch. Diane’s art is to make it feel normal. It drives her loyal husband (Ty Burrell) and her two confused young daughters to a distraction bordering on despair.

Kidman delivers another standout performance, transparent and magnetic. Burrell is no match for Downey’s hypnotic beast. The hairy romantic chemistry with Kidman is electric, the context inspired.

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