“The Prince of Puke,” “The Duke of Dirt,” “The Baron of Bad Taste” – filmmaker John Waters has built a career out of shock and awe. As much a pop surrealist as a snickering class clown, Waters has held the unique distinction of occupying both the underground and the mainstream. These days, his influence is everywhere: from Ryan Murphy’s high-gloss TV empire to the art house perversions of Harmony Korine. With his slender frame and penciled-in mustache, Waters has modeled himself into an instantly recognizable cultural figure. Last month, he received a double-hitter show biz coronation: a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame and an exhibit at the Academy Museum of Motion Pictures.
The exhibit, titled “John Waters: Pope of Trash” — Waters’ most preeminent nickname, as christened by counterculture icon William S. Burroughs — runs from Sept. 17 to Aug. 4, 2024. Upon entering, museum goers are ushered into the church of Saint John, replete with pews, faux-stain glass and a pointedly unholy compilation of clips from his body of work. Colored with the Twister board palette of his films, this retrospective features expertly curated memorabilia, press items, set pieces and costumes.
Waters’ most defining act of directorial disgust is a moment from his film “Pink Flamingos.” The 1974 cult classic follows the increasingly depraved exploits of Divine, the self-ordained “filthiest person alive.” At the film’s closing, Divine takes a bite of actual dog feces and flashes a toothy smile. Throughout Waters’ filmography, there have been enough sight gags and gross-outs to fill a nation’s stock of barf bags. This is the type of gleeful subversion that only Waters can pull off: a ringmaster of repulsion is enshrined in the Academy Museum, of all places.
Born and raised in Baltimore, the exhibit tracks his career from child puppeteer to lauded iconoclast. His early short films are on display, including newly-restored deep cuts like “Hag in a Black Leather Jacket” (1964) and “The Diane Linkletter Story” (1970). The work of Waters’ Dreamlanders — a troupe of collaborators that have stayed a constant throughout his career — is lovingly memorialized.
Most notable among them is Divine, who appeared in eight of Waters’ films before his death in 1988. Performing in drag, Divine was a finely calibrated character actor with a shrewd sense of comic timing. Coupled with a clownish Jayne Mansfield veneer, Divine helped establish the tone and look of Waters’ cinematic oeuvre. While I could’ve stood for a touch more Divine-related content, perhaps that’s another exhibit altogether. One is left pondering the state of Divine’s iconic fishtail dress from “Pink Flamingos” – a curious absence from the exhibit.
In any case, there is still plenty for Waters diehards to cheer for. An original scratch-&-sniff card from the Douglas Sirk-ian melodrama “Polyester” (1981) is enclosed in glass, and the courtroom from his suburban crime comedy “Serial Mom” (1994) is replicated with eagle-eyed detail. A towering beehive wig worn by Debbie Harry sits atop a mannequin’s head in mint condition. Which brings us to “Hairspray” (1988).
How do you shock audiences after every taboo has been crossed? Make a family-friendly dance movie. By now, the story of Tracy Turnblad — a plump and plucky Baltimore teen who seeks to integrate a local dance program — is more familiar to most Americans than any given Bible passage. The “Hairspray” section of the exhibit is the largest; with an emphasis on the larger-than-life costumes. Designer Van Smith’s ’60s frocks are in glorious day-glo abundance with Tracy’s cockroach-adorned ball gown standing proudly in the center.
“Hairspray” was Waters’ first full-fledged foray into the mainstream. In 2002, it served as the source material for a Broadway musical, which was in turn made into a star-studded box-office bonzo. The siren call of Tracy’s anthem “Good Morning Baltimore” can be heard in every high school auditorium in the country.
The exhibit, which covers Waters’ films chronologically, helps make sense of this unlikely crossover into industry establishment. “Female Trouble” (1974), a crass satire in the “Pink Flamingos“ mold, features Divine as the bouffant-coiffed teen terror Dawn Davenport. Traces of Dawn can be found in the more palatable rebellions of Tracy Turnblad. His lifelong fascination with criminals produced another mainstream endeavor, the ’50s-set “Cry-Baby” (1990) starring Johnny Depp as a delinquent heartthrob.
Waters’ ascent to cult stardom in the ’70s coincided with the rise of underground cinema in the country at large. Appropriately, the academy has erected an adjacent exhibit, titled “Outside the Mainstream.” Wider in scope but smaller in scale, this exhibit celebrates the predominantly queer rabble-rousers of avant-garde film. As a neighbor to the Waters circus, “Outside the Mainstream” sheds light on the provocateurs who came before and after Waters—contextualizing him within a larger filmic tapestry.
After being immersed in Waters’ world of filth, I was left with the sense that, above all, he is an essentially good-hearted person. There is a warmth in his demeanor that distinguishes him from other shock mongers; a beating heart that pulsates through all of his endeavors. He is unflinching but nonjudgmental, aesthetically exacting but unpretentious. Devoted to documenting the spirit of Baltimore, he is a tried and true filmmaker of the people. To see the world through Waters’ eyes is to see a world where anarchic freedom of self prevails. Lest we get too preachy, please refer to the feces incident.
Contact Jonah De Forest at deforest@oxy.edu
Beautifully developed. Great review