Bless Ethan Hawke. He's out there living his boho life with Uma, doing the indie-actor thing, writing his novels, and now directing a low-budget, murky montage of a film (digital, no less) about New York City's legendary haven for artistic types (Dylan Thomas, de Kooning, Sid and Nancy), the Chelsea Hotel. The earnestness of Hawke's homage to the grimy demimonde of would-be artistes is almost touching, but it would take a finger-snapping Beat lover to stomach this hackneyed bunch of alcoholic/alienated/poetry-spouting/paint-stained/guitar-strumming ''dreamers.''


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