John Waters is Uncancellable
John Waters has shocked and awed audiences for decades with his transgressive cult-classic films. For his new art exhibition at Sprüth Magers, the filmmaker and provocateur takes on his touchiest subject yet.
Photography Devin N. Morris
“You can’t say anything these days,” says John Waters. “One could argue,” I reply, “that you’ve always said things you weren’t supposed to say.” He pauses. “Yes, I have. But it’s a thin line, and somehow I have always gotten away with it...I haven’t had a ‘cancel’ attempt yet because I make fun of the things I love, not hate.”
Waters’ love-not-hate quip is one I recognize from his past press, repeated, perhaps, to diffuse relentless scrutiny of the most provocative aspects of his work, which spans six decades of filmmaking, performance, non-fiction writing, and fine art. His films in particular, critically venerated for their gonzo flamboyance, are popularly remembered for their salaciousness. When I agreed to profile Waters, I promised myself to defy the obvious, to sanctify his satire, to approach him as an acolyte formed rather than shocked by his signature grot (I played Edna in my high school’s production of Hairspray—adapted from his 1988 film of the same name—and found 1972’s Pink Flamingos soon after). When a straight acquaintance asked me who John Waters was, however, I resorted to clichés and memes: “He took midnight movies to Hollywood! His muse was an obese drag queen named Divine, and she ate literal dog shit at the end of Pink Flamingos, which was banned in several countries, and one continent! Remember Hairspray? The original? That’s him!” My flaccid attempt at Waters 101 defaulted to the most widespread—vanilla!—fixations on his work. And now here I was, with my idol on the horn, implying “one could argue’’ that the Pope was Catholic.
“We were making fun of hippies,” beams Waters, 74, from his Baltimore home, referring to his early films: microbudget collaborations with a repertory cast and crew known as the Dreamlanders. “Even though we were sort of hippies...we made movies to make hippies nervous. And I still do that: make liberals nervous, even though I am a liberal.” Waters made his first feature, Mondo Trasho, in 1969; after that came Multiple Maniacs (1970), Pink Flamingos (1972), and Female Trouble (1974), each centered on a woman—always played by Harris Glenn “Divine” Milstead, who was a man—devoted to perversion and crime. Waters’ Dreamland skewered the fringe lifestyles of its denizens: gays, punks, poor folks, fat folks, and so on. The tension between laughing-at and laughing-with ignited the arthouses and college campuses where the films played. Perhaps Waters’ legacy, and my own bewildered gravitation toward his work, springs from the line he draws between yesterday’s “hippies” and today’s “liberals.” The former had a sense of humor; the latter don’t, and I’m piqued when Waters identifies himself as such. By the end of the Trump era, “liberal” had emerged as a pejorative among my peer group, disillusioned as we were by the righteous ineptitude of the Democratic establishment. We began to shed the moral certainties of doomscroll wokeness and clickbait activism without quite renegotiating our pieties toward issues of race, class, gender, sex, death, or history. “Fun” and its “making” remain unfashionable at best.
You've got to laugh. Sometimes you laugh the hardest when it's the most painful.
A 2006 diptych of C-prints by Waters titled “9-11” is featured in Hollywood’s Greatest Hits, a retrospective of his mixed-media works showing this spring at Sprüth Magers in Los Angeles. Photographed on film in front of a television, “9-11” presents the title cards of Steve Carr’s 2001 film Dr. Doolittle 2 and Brian Helgeland’s A Knight’s Tale from the same year. This duet of commercial comedies—which, per Waters, “no one remembers”— garnered nearly $300 million in ticket sales between them. They were also the films scheduled to screen on American Airlines Flight 11 and United Airlines Flight 175, which were hijacked by terrorists and flown into Manhattan’s Twin Towers on September 11, 2001. When the artist reveals this to me, I laugh from my throat. “You laugh,” says Waters, clocking my nerves, “but it is a joyous piece in a way, because they never got to actually play them. It would have been worse if you were crashing into the World Trade Center watching Dr. Doolittle 2. I’m always an optimist!” Taken literally, “9-11” could be read as a cynical Hollywood send-up, packaged to crash and burn. The work, however, emerges not far in Waters’ oeuvre from Cecil B. Demented, a 2001 film about a scuzzy gang of underground filmmakers who capture an A-List actress (Melanie Griffith) and force her to act in their midnight movie. The slimy film buffs—tattooed with the names of arthouse heroes like David Lynch, Pedro Almodóvar, and Spike Lee—radicalize their hostage, who memorably screams “make good movies or die!” at the film’s climax, just before her hair catches fire. If “9-11” sends lowbrow cinema hurtling to its demise, Cecil B. Demented burns its highbrow equivalent at the stake. “Taste” itself—arguably a bourgeois affectation of the “liberal” sphere—warps and bends under Waters’ ruthlessly playful gaze, giving way to a disarmingly sincere ethic of cultural consumption. “You’ve got to laugh,” insists Waters. “Sometimes you laugh hardest when it’s the most painful.”
Toward the end of my allotted time with Waters, the call drops. I frantically redial his assistant’s phone. It rings, my thoughts drift: how did I wind up on this call? I’m not a journalist, and until recently, I have rarely been published. I’m an actress and former model known primarily for being competent and transgender. Sure, Waters and I are loosely connected as public-facing Hollywood queers reckoning with straight audiences, but where straight “nervousness” excites him, it has at many points tormented me. I Googled myself a few years ago, and the top related search was an inquest into whether or not my character on a popular television show was a man (it was my first time playing a character on screen that wasn’t expressly written as transgender). My name-search plunged me into a months-long depression that culminated in eight cosmetic facial procedures; it occurs to me that the same discovery might have delighted Waters, had the tables been turned.
Humor, that’s how it works. You go in and you embarrass the enemy and you make them feel stupid. And you win.
When he greets me for the second time, I tell him that I want to hear about Elizabeth Coffey, a relatively unsung Dreamlander best known for her cameo as Chick with a Dick in Pink Flamingos. In the film, she exposes her tits and eponymous dick to a flasher, who runs for the hills. Waters is three steps ahead of me: “Coffey was getting the [sex] change five days later! She said, ‘I did that scene because I knew that I could own that joke forever. And nobody could ever make fun of me.’ And no one ever did.” He goes on for several minutes about Coffey, her bravery, her bohemian spirit, as well as her advocacy for housing for trans elders in Philadelphia, where she lives today. I smile; his love for Coffey is clear and deep. Waters, an artist who might glibly be taxonomized as a “cisgender male,” leveraged the body of a transsexual woman for a sight gag in a midnight movie five decades ago–and it worked. It still works!
“Humor,” says Waters, who has never been canceled. “That’s how it works. You go in and you embarrass the enemy and you make them feel stupid. And you win.”
A Timeline of John Waters' Career
STYLIST Rasaan Wyzard
GROOMING Cheryl Kinion
PHOTO ASSISTANT Amina Hassen
SPECIAL THANKS to the Ivy Hotel