The laconic, outrageously sincere patience of Warhol’s earlier films is gone—his passive gaze is now violent, clipped, gratuitously bored. The camera zips around the room and interrupts Morse’s monologue with random ‘strobe cuts’—it’s a brutal, hyperactive valentine with an amphetamine pulse. One leaves TIGER MORSE feeling like Warhol had nowhere else to go, that whatever aborted aesthetic he was working towards would have been radical and frightening, overflowing with irreproachable love.
Kyle A. Westphal
April 17, 2015