John Waters: Interviews

Waters: “. . . I’ve Always Tried to Sell Out”

105 Waters: “. . . I’ve Always Tried to Sell Out” Claude Thomas Brooks / 1982 From In Motion Film and Video Production Magazine, 1982, 20–23. Reprinted by permission of Claude Thomas Brooks. Somewhere in the core of the city rises a tall apartment building surrounded by one of Baltimore’s more fashionable ghettos. Nestled on the seventh floor of this architectural dinosaur and accessible only by an elevator resembling a gold festooned broom closet is one of the most visually tantalizing and provocative domiciles this side of 221B Baker Street. Here in modest Victorian luxury dwells Maryland’s most controversial and perhaps most important filmmaker, John Waters. It’s an icy cold, gray, Baltimore winter’s day as I leave my car parked in a soot-covered snowdrift. Ringing up on the security phone at the main door John buzzes me in, and after my ascent rescues me from the dimly lit starkness of the hallway. The memorable, wooden electric chair in his apartment foyer, a prop from Female Trouble is the first objet d’art to brightly greet and delight visitors. Laced with spiraling tangles of film footage from the cutting room floor, roping it off like a priceless antique in the Louvre, it’s obvious that this seat in the Waters’ Art Gallery is not for sitting. The walls abound with myriad, framed esoteric, movie posters, half sheets and colorful prints. Featured are the works of John’s two favorite filmmakers, Herschell Gordon Lewis, (Blood Feast, Two Thousand Maniacs , and Color Me Blood Red) and Russ Meyer (Vixen, Beyond the Valley of the Dolls, and Faster Pussycat, Kill! Kill!) The dominant focal point of the living room is a gigantic 5x6 foot poster from the French release of John’s latest movie, Polyester. It hangs 106 john waters: inter views majestically above a massive maroon sofa and sparkling brass trunk that doubles as a coffee table. To the left as you enter the room is a fireplace still decorated for Christmas and a colossal urn sprouting dried flowers. An oil portrait of Gertrude Baniszewski, little-known criminal personality, hangs ornately above the mantle. Floor to ceiling book cases flank either side, containing books, family photos, and a stuffed pheasant who keeps a friendly eye on the proceedings. Generally, it is a comfortable room reminiscent of my grandparents’ home in the country. This is where we perched to discuss the latest “Made in Maryland” cinematic venture. John is a very receptive and hospitable person, offering me a freshly brewed cup of tea served in a Prince Charles and Lady Di commemorative tea cup. His manner is dignified, lacking any trace of pretentiousness . You feel as if everything he is about to utter will be straightforward and true. Recently returned from four weeks of promoting Polyester as well as his new book, Shock Value, John agrees to respond to interrogations into his latest contribution to the cinema de l’absurde. Polyester is the hilariously cynical yarn of Francine Fishpaw (Divine), suburban Baltimore housewife and how she copes with her husband’s (David Sampson) infidelity. First, she sinks to the depths of alcoholism, comforted only by her true friend Cuddles (Edith Massey). She then finds temporary bliss in the arms of Todd Tomorrow (Tab Hunter). As if this isn’t enough, her grief is compounded by a promiscuous daughter (Mary Garlington) and her psychotic boyfriend (Stiv Bators) whose escapades suspiciously resemble autobiographical episodes from John’s book Shock Value. In the end everyone is dealt their just desserts in the best tradition of chaos and revenge for which Waters is legend. This film is a dramatic departure from previous Waters bill of fare in that it was made for the masses and not for mid-night audiences. Although he claims that many of the mass marketeers were just as appalled at Polyester as his midnight audiences were at Pink Flamingos, I find this hard to believe. I would have no qualms about taking my mother to see Polyester which is always my prerequisite for respectability. It is also the only truly amusing, no, not just amusing, hysterical comedy to be released in 1981. There are more laughs per frame in this account of suburban moral decay than in anything cranked out by Neil Simon or Mel Brooks in the past five years. claude thomas brooks / 1982 107 Much of the same crew from previous films returned once more to get...