Review – “The Rocky Horror Picture Show”

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.