|
Ripe melodrama has an undeniable olfactory side, the prologue introduces the William Castle gimmick and promises "odors that may shock you." (Filthy shoes, new car leather, intestinal gas and skunks, the marvels of Odorama.) John Waters advances on the Dreamland tripod with a Steadicam up the stairs of the Fishpaw household, at her vanity table the heroine (Divine) prepares herself for another day of tribulation. Hubby (David Samson) runs the local porn theater and dallies with the secretary (Mink Stole), daughter (Mary Garlington) can't wait to get an abortion, glue-sniffing son (Ken King) turns out to be the notorious Baltimore Foot Stomper. The moneyed debutante (Edith Massey) lends a sympathetic ear: "I look into my future and all I see is a long, dark highway filled with endless toll booths and no exits." Too much for her, the spiral of alcoholism and near-suicide (the botched noose is taken up successfully by the family pooch) is curtailed by the gigolo (Tab Hunter) she meets at a grisly auto accident. Waters in mainstream suburbia, frowsy and delirious as can be, an ideal midpoint between Desperate Living and Hairspray. The bogus seduction of highbrow leads to the drive-in advertising a Marguerite Duras triple feature, the befuddled hausfrau leafs through Cahiers du Cinéma while the duplicitous stud enjoys a line or two of cocaine. "We met, we spoke... our love became infinity," Debbie Harry lyrics and Bill Murray vocals. The shadow of the Fifties into the Eighties, Sirk and Tashlin plus hayrides for nuns and wayward girls. Divine's Magnani storms, Hunter's generous self-parody, runny mascara and soap-operatic organs, all dissolves in a puff of air freshener. "Oh, you see, children? It's not hard to be normal." Almodóvar takes it from there with What Have I Done to Deserve This? With Joni Ruth White, Stiv Bators, Jean Hill, Mary Vivian Pearce, Susan Lowe, and Cookie Mueller.
--- Fernando F. Croce |