SHARMAN, Jim (Dir.), "The Rocky Horror Picture Show", Twentieth
Century Fox Film Corporation/Michael White Productions, 1975.
Let
me set the record straight right from the get-go: I’m not one of the “Don’t
Dream It - Be It” crowd. Not for me the fishnets and suspenders, nor the
bustier and eyeshadow. I’m quite happy tapping my toe along to the soundtrack,
but as to being a sweet Transvestite from Transexual in Transylvania – I’m not
feeling it. Not that I don’t get it: the message is clear. It’s just not mine.
With
Hallowe’en around the corner, the Mount Vic. Flicks people decided to hold a
special event screening of this cult favourite. Running into Don from Afternoonified – our local store for all
things steampunk – he asked me if I was interested in coming along. I had a
sudden flash of the last time I went to one of these back in the 80s and
hesitated; but then I said “yes; yes I will”, because my new mantra is to say
“yes” to things social, and since the word ‘horror’ appears in the title of the
film, I thought that would make it worthy of blogging about. I downloaded my
ticket and discovered from it that I was assigned the role of “Criminologist”,
so I spent a day and a bit organising a costume in order to attend. The result
was mixed; the hardest object to acquire was a pipe, or cigarette holder,
(which I thought the role required) but I think I pulled it off.
Once
I was suitably in drag, I drove out to Mt. Victoria, which is the last village
in the Blue Mountains as you head west. This place has enough actual scariness to make it worthy of
avoiding on a dark and fogbound night, but I figured the attendees would be of
significant quantity to provide the sort of herd safety that buffalo generate.
Seriously: this village is the nexus of a nasty little inbred cult and once while
at a cafe there, I was told without a trace of irony that they “didn’t take to
that fancy EFTPOS stuff around here”, but that Bert at the pub would spot me a
fifty across the bar. Brrr! Nevertheless, the Mt. Vic. Flicks people do a great
job of bringing cult and arthouse movies to the public and I was keen to
support their efforts with my presence and my hard-earned.
(I’m
not kidding about the fog either: just before Katoomba it walloped down like a
son-of-a-bitch and didn’t let up except for the hundred metres or so in front
of the Hydro Majestic Hotel in Medlow Bath – I figure they must pay some excess
on their rates for that kind of weather exemption.)
I
got to the cinema with a quarter-hour to spare and made my way inside.
Riff-Raff was handing out equipment bags and a couple of Magentas were
distributing champagne-analogue. I shuffled inside and discovered that our
seats were right down in front, which gave me a moment’s pause: I enjoy going
to see comedians but I have learnt from experience that the front row is where
most of the mayhem occurs and is best avoided. I had a presentiment that
high-jinks would be the order of the day at this screening, and so I became
wary. As it turned out, apart from momentary contact with rubber-encased buttocks,
I was shielded by some guardian angel from the worst of the front row engagements.
The
champagne-analogue was a clue. These types of events require that participants
get into the swing by dropping their inhibitions and so booze is distributed
largesse in order to facilitate this. Sitting, as I was, up front, I saw
exactly how many bottles of this evil fruit juice were being pressed upon the
gagging audience, most of whom had already been lowering their inhibitions at
the local pub, and it was thoroughly sobering.
Our
equipment bags were “Rocky Horror-lite” in that they covered the most obvious
bases without going the whole hog. There was confetti to be divided between the
opening wedding scene and the unholy wedding of Frank ‘n’ Rocky; a sheet of
newspaper to be worn during the rain scene; a glowstick to wave during the “There’s a Light” number; a rubber glove
to snap; a party noisemaker to blow during the “Animation Sequence”; a Party
Popper™ to fire before the “Honeymoon Suite” scene; and a party hat to wear at
the dinner scene. I’ve been to screenings where toast and rice and water
pistols have been the order of the day, along with regimented responses to the
dialogue – this was not one of those screenings. On the whole, it was
preferable.
Once
everyone was in situ, the film got
underway. We were surrounded by some vaguely-acquainted individuals who were
drunk when they arrived and drunker when the opening credits rolled. It
transpired that they were all school teachers on a team-building exercise and
every time someone took a photo with their ‘phone the words “I hope this never
gets to the school website!” rang out en
clair. Given their ensuing semi-pornographic antics, I just assumed that
one of these images would be ringing down the end of someone’s career within a
few days: there’s protesting and then there’s protesting too much.
The
film kicked off and I was surprised at the quantity of words that I still
retained in my memory. This print of the film had the words of the songs
printed in sub-title, but I was able to sing along with a bare acknowledgement
of their presence; usefully, I was able to clear up some minor issues I have
with the text where the exact words were unknown to me. Interestingly, the versions
of the words in my head were better than the actual words, so I think I’ll
stick with those.
During
“Sweet Transvestite” a paid performer
appeared and over-sang the lyrics while parading his rubber underwear. I was
kind of annoyed by this because Tim Curry simply can’t be outdone in belting out
this tune, so the live performance was invasive and pointless. My attention
became white-hot focussed during his rendition only because he and a tribe of
Magentas converged on my vicinity: thankfully, they manhandled the
school-teacher next to me and dragged him away into the ladies’ toilets:
thank-you guardian angels!
After
this, we snapped rubber gloves and blew party favours. At the point where Rocky
is manifested in his bandages, the unfortunate school teacher re-appeared
wrapped in toilet paper and was dragged through several rows of viewers who got
to strip him of his coverings. He struggled back to his seat next to me clad in
his own underwear (jocks and singlet), gold lamé undies stuffed to bursting with
two tea towels, and a blonde wig. He complained about how cold it was for the
rest of the event; I was impressed that he didn’t complain about what had been
done to him by the enthusiastic organisers!
Just
before the appearance of Eddie, there was an Intermission. This was a bad idea:
the last act of the film is weak, weak, weak, and enthusiasm tapers off
dramatically. There was a costume competition (won by a woman breast-feeding
her baby and a guy Dr. Scott-ing in a wheelchair) and way more
champagne-analogue: I’m wondering if anyone in the audience even remembers the second half.
Eventually,
we hit the betrayal moment where Riff-raff and Magenta bite the hand that feeds
them, and the house Transvestite re-appeared to perform the songs that Tim
Curry was already more than adequately crooning. There was a moment when he perched
himself rather uncomfortably on my lap but I’ve blanked it from my memory –
obviously, my guardian angels were working overtime; I can’t fault them for
letting one misdemeanour through. The Floorshow saw the unfortunate and frozen
school-teacher and the breast-feeding mother dragged forward to bumble the
lyrics and then it was an inevitable slide towards the end credits. I can’t say
that I wasn’t happy to get out of there: seriously, I could have slapped on my
DVD of this film at home and had a better time with it. It was atmospheric; I
had a night out; that was it. It was a case of building life experience: there
are things I’ve seen tonight that I will not forget for awhile, despite efforts
to the contrary; but on balance I wouldn’t have missed it.
Now:
the film itself. It’s hard to criticise this effort; the music is catchy,
subversive and full of hooks, so you find yourself singing along regardless.
However, the music is one of the best things about this film. As far as the
plot is concerned, it’s a dog’s breakfast. This is a tent-pole script: it has a
number of points that it has to attain and it gets there by the most obtuse
approaches possible: get the hero and heroine to the castle; get the monster
animated; get the government agent involved; get everyone compromised; get the
betrayal done; wrap things up. The ludicrous ways that the actors and writers
get across these anchors is what makes the film a cult classic and are the
things which stick with the fans. If the music was less engaging and the
performers less adept, the whole project would have fallen flat (see: “Shock Treatment”).
My
interest is that the film transverses two segments: a horror-story mode and a
science-fiction tale. The set-up is pure horror: the young lovers are sent out
into the dark and stormy night, only to experience an accident and then
back-track to the lair of the nightmare antagonist. This has the ring of urban
myth to it: if Riff-raff was scraping his hook-hand on the roof of Brad’s car
it couldn’t be more perfect.
The
scene in the lab is the transition moment. This is the genre side-step: horror
is a body stitched together from mis-matched parts; science fiction is the
re-animation of those parts by scientific means. From here on in we are in
sci-fi central, where everything has an alien rationale. Generically-speaking,
the movie falls into these two halves: B-grade horror followed by B-grade
sci-fi. It’s right there in the title song.
Performances
make this film. It’s inconceivable now that anyone else could undertake these
roles; it’s a moment of perfect casting. Tim Curry is Frank’n’furter; Susan Sarandon is Janet; no-one else does any of the movie’s roles better, and I’m
sorry to all those stage performers who belt it out periodically live on stage.
It’s one of the things that ensures that this piece of fluff hasn’t faded into
the background – perfect songs; perfect casting.
The
scripting is something less stellar. As this special event tonight has shown,
the third act of this movie is clunky and fudged; not sure of where it’s going.
It ends, but not satisfactorily. The unsatisfactory conclusion is covered by
more – counterintuitive - stellar song-writing, but it feels lazy around about
this point, as if all personnel were just wanting to get home and forget the
depredations of the daily grind. I think it’s an empathic thing: having seen
Barry Bostwick and Susan Sarandon stand around for two-thirds of the film in
their underwear, it seems only charitable to let them go home and get some warm
clothes on.
Do
I find this film enjoyable? Yes; occasionally. Do I think it’s art? No: not at
all. It’s fun; that’s all. I enjoy the artistic references and the songs; the
impeccable performances. It’s not “worthy” or “art”: it is what it is and I’ll
probably go again next year.
Are
you listening, Mt. Vic. Flicks?
Three-and-a-half
Tentacled Horrors.
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