If these walls could talk, they probably wouldn’t have any better luck with the pretentious dialogue and stereotyped roles of this ego-driven mess than the fine cast does. Actor Ethan Hawke’s first feature is set in the legendary Chelsea Hotel, the habitat of Manhattan artists and addicts over the decades (shots of plaques commemorating the likes of Dylan Thomas and Brendan Behan are useful reminders). The gauzy collage follows the lives of several tenants (and the death of one), including a bad musician from Minnesota (Sean Robert Leonard), a bad, self-indulgent painter (Vincent D’Onofrio), a bad, self-destructive, alcoholic writer (Kris Kristofferson), and their various attachments, most significantly Uma Thurman’s Grace (why not call her Muse?) and Rosario Dawson’s Audrey, who inexplicably put up with their bullshit (true, Audrey does retaliate with a long recitation of one of her "poems"). Hawke’s direction consists of suggesting ways to smoke cigarettes, and the script from playwright Nicole Burdette is sophomoric. Only the digital video photography by Tom Richmond and Richard Rutkowski is evocative — imagine the cover of a Leonard Cohen album, then listen to the album instead of watching this tourist guide to art and artists.