And, Uh, I'd Like To Be Famous

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An existential question looms over the head of I Am Divine, the documentary about John Waters' filthy muse - to dog poop or not to dog poop. As the film approaches the most infamous moment of Harris Glenn Milstead's professional career, you can sense the audience shriveling up into themselves, like a cock that just hit freezing water. (Item #211 in the Critic's Handbook - when reviewing a movie by or about John Waters, the word "cock" must be uttered at some point.) Oh god, are they going to show it, you're thinking. I just came for a nice night out, I put on my slacks and everything, I didn't prepare myself mentally for this. 

I'm not going to tell you whether they show it or not, but the movie gets you so into the mindset of the Mondo Trasho gang that, slacks be damned, you're sticking it out. As far as docs go I Am Divine's a pretty straightforward talking-head affair, but the word "straight-forward" really loses all sense of meaning with talking heads like these. John Waters, Mink Stole, Mary Vivian Pierce, Holly Woodlawn, Tab Hunter, Ricki Lake, and copious reams of old footage of the glorious queen of filth himself - there's not a dry gash in the house. (Item #212 in the Critic's Handbook - Never pass up a chance to use the word "gash.")

I've schooled myself pretty extensively on Dreamland and its lovably psychotic inhabitants in the past but there are all sorts of unexpected treats up in here - most excitingly, footage from Waters' earliest shorts that's scarcely been seen for decades. Oh my god you haven't lived until you've seen Divine in full Jackie Kennedy regalia crawling out the back of a convertible splattered with gore. For that alone, but really for so much more, I Am Divine lives up to its namesake and then some.

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