[Ernie Kovacs's comment, "Show me a cowboy who rides sidesaddle, and I'll show you a gay ranchero"], which I heard the late great comedian throw away one time, is as accurate a summary of Andy Warhol's new movie, Lonesome Cowboys, as one can make. But the point of one of his films is never to be found in its content, but simply in its existence, whether it happens to be twenty-four hours long, as one of them is, or twenty-four minutes, as one of them might perfectly well be. None of the matters usually brought up when we talk about films—story, style, technique—has any relevance to his work. Indeed, I have no hesitancy in admitting that I left Cowboys ten minutes before it was over, on the grounds that since it had no beginning and no middle it probably didn't have an ending either. It seemed...