52/72: PINK FLAMINGOS

 by Anthony King

Beginning our journey through 1972 in Dreamland.

I remember the first time I saw John Waters' Pink Flamingos I was appalled. I was appalled at how terrible it was. My friend Amy lent me a DVD box set of several of his movies. Waters was (and still is) Amy's favorite filmmaker. She raved about him constantly, and when I admitted that I'd never seen anything from the Pope of Trash, she nearly threw the box set at me, duct taped me to a chair, and forced my eyes open a la Alex from A Clockwork Orange. Pink Flamingos is Waters' most well known film, so I figured I'd start with that one. It had yet to come to the Criterion Collection so I didn't have that in my head yet, but I knew it's reputation as being known as an all time cult film as well as being regarded as a masterpiece by many. So I watched it. And I hated it. This?!?! This is the movie everybody raves about?!?! I just didn't get it. It wasn't funny. It was gross. It was poorly acted. It was poorly directed. It simply wasn't for me. Well, at least I can say I've seen it. And I never have to watch it again, I thought to myself.

A few years later I started a podcast called the Cult Movies Podcast, covering the movies written about by Danny Peary in his Cult Movies books. Lo and behold, Pink Flamingos was in the lineup. To say I was dreading the prospect of having to not only watch the movie again, but devote an entire podcast to it would be an understatement. But, duty calls. I begged my wife to watch it with me because I didn't want to suffer through it alone again, and I figured I could have someone agree with me that this “masterpiece” was in fact a giant piece of shit. Well wouldn't you know, we watched Pink Flamingos, and as shocked as Bobbie was at some parts, the credits rolled, we looked at each other, and both agreed: that was a pretty great movie. Eighteen months later I decided to start a new column covering films of 1972, and I couldn't think of a better movie to kick off the series than the masterpiece that is Pink Flamingos.

In 2021 Pink Flamingos was selected for preservation in the United States National Film Registry by the Library of Congress. A movie containing incest, bestiality, coprophagia, cannibalism, and castration was deemed culturally, historically, or aesthetically significant. Brilliant. The film stars Divine as Babs Johnson, a criminal in hiding and proudly dubbed “The Filthiest Person Alive.” Connie and Raymond Marble, a couple running a black market baby ring, won't stand for Babs being known as the filthiest. What ensues is a battle of filth. The Marbles send a turd in the mail to the Johnson trailer. Babs and her son Crackers break into the Marble house, lick everything in sight, Babs fellates her son, and they free the sex slaves hidden in the Marble's basement. The Marbles then burn down the Johnson trailer. Finally, Babs, Crackers, and her friend Cotton, kidnap the Marbles, gather the media, enact a kangaroo court, and sentence the Marbles to death. In between the scheming we spend time with the Marbles as they interview potential parents, kidnap potential slaves, and fornicate. Raymond Marble spends his free time flashing young ladies in the park with a sausage tied to his penis. Meanwhile, Babs buys a steak and rubs it on her crotch, poops in a rich person's lawn, marries her mother off to the egg man complete with a reception full of the most interesting people including a man who prolapses his anus to “Surfin' Bird.” The Marbles are so offended by the party they call the police. The cops show up to break up the gathering but are murdered and then eaten by the guests. At one point the Marbles hire a spy who has sex with Crackers and a chicken while Cotton watches. And, of course, at the very end of the movie, we see Divine eat real dog shit. All for art, folks.

While I now see the genius of John Waters, Divine, and Pink Flamingos, the movie still makes me a little sick. Coprophagia and animal abuse aside, the part that makes my stomach turn the most is watching Babs' mother, Edie, eat hard boiled eggs in her crib. Played brilliantly by Edith Massey, Edie is obsessed with eggs and is in love with the man who delivers the eggs. I eat eggs, but eggs being eaten in a filthy environment brings on the queaz. In close second is when Babs and Crackers lick everything in the Marble residence. Again, I can't imagine the set was thoroughly cleaned before the scene was filmed, so rubbing one's tongue on a bannister that probably hasn't been wiped down makes this writer a little nauseous. I'll watch the dude make his rectum pop in and out of his butthole all day, but Edie talking with a mouthful of egg or Crackers licking a couch is what got me.

I can watch Pink Flamingos on my own and appreciate or not appreciate its many facets of entertainment. But, like many things in life, when I get to talk to people whose enthusiasm for the film is so strong that it becomes infectious, I start to see the movie in a new light. Upon my third, and most recent, watch, a nagging question wouldn't leave me alone: What makes Pink Flamingos a masterpiece and other films of the same quality at best amateurish but usually terrible and nearly unwatchable? Waters gathered his friends together to make this movie. True, Divine leads the charge with his gigantic personality and no-fear artistic genius. By the time Waters made Pink Flamingos he'd already made a handful of short films and two features. Clearly he had ability and a sense of visual storytelling. The word “charming” comes to mind when watching a movie made on a shoestring budget with mostly non actors. Yet, and this doesn't include the first time I saw it, each time I watch Pink Flamingos I see more and more of the artistic genius of it all. The film was made for $12,000. The cast included local actors who had little to no acting experience. Many of the shots in the film are sub par. The first time I watched the film this is all I could see and think about. The third time, though, I find those things either easy to ignore or endearing, and I focus on Divine's over-the-top amazing performance (ie. when she's screaming at the top of her lungs after receiving the turd in the mail); the brilliance of the story (despicable people fighting to be the filthiest person in the world); embracing the regional quality of it all (like Romero, Waters seemed proud to showcase his hometown). It all works so well, and the film seems to embrace – nay, proudly display – its warts. I find myself loving this film more and more each time I watch it. Something I never would've thought possible.

Along with The Rocky Horror Picture Show (1975), Pink Flamingos is the epitome of cult movies. It’s pure, unfiltered cinematic anarchy. And there's no other movie that could kick this series off with a bang.