[My Hustler] really is just a home movie made by a few people who know a bit about cameras and a bit about their subject, and like any homegrown product, it has its ups and downs.

On the up side is much of the chat, which in its bitchy way is quite funny, observant, and full of the hollow ring of truth. The camera work for the most part is annoyingly perfect…. (pp. 72, 74)

But the downer, and it is a major one, is the basic premise that these shallow, one-dimensional people are worth examining at all. They, and their situation, like their existence, are not really worth a second look, let alone seventy minutes of film. Unless of course one is making a little home movie to pass the time, to experiment and to have a bit of a giggle—which is the summation of My Hustler.

One would be a fool to dismiss the work of Andy Warhol—his importance and his impact are beyond question—but one would be equally foolhardy to take him that seriously. Regardless of his value as an artist, and his film work is merely an extension of that art, he refuses to be taken seriously, yet anyone interested in the cinema should get to see My Hustler. (p. 74)