Pink Flamingos
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Movie Reviews of Pink Flamingos
Movie Review: great!
Summary: 5 Stars
one of the best movies made on bad taste. ther is nothing to compare this to.Movie Review: Funny! Funny! Funny!
Summary: 5 Stars
I actually bought as a gift for my brother and he REALLY loves it!!!!!!!!!Movie Review: Gr8 Old yrash movis
Summary: 5 Stars
I love divine and john waters. Movie is a bit dated but a trash classicMovie Review: I Was at the Very First Showing of Pink Flamingos
Summary: 4 Stars
I was at the very first showing of John Waters' poodle poop munching and side-splittingly hilarious cinematic masterpiece Pink Flamingos. It was shown in a mid-sized and rather comfy auditorium at the Maryland Institute of Art on Mount Royal Avenue in Baltimore, Maryland.
At the time, 1972, it was several months after my stint in the U.S. Army as a Public Information Office photographer on Okinawa. I had experienced many wild and crazy happenings on Okinawa - with a lotta hip and funny friends and acquaintances from all over America, which had set my 21-yr-old mind up real well for the off-beat cinematography, the right-on-time (as we Hippies used to say) screen writing and filthy, avant garde humor of Pink Flamingos.
I only attended the premiere of Pink Flamingos because my girlfriend at the time, Johanna, had close friends who knew some people real well who had filmed a movie in and around Baltimore. And it was the first movie I ever knew of being made in my hometown of Mobtown.
During the 1966 era, I was a Rock 'n Roll kid from the Dundalk suburbs of Baltimore who had spent a lot of time hanging out with other teenagers in Downtown Baltimore's Howard St. Corridor and on up into the Beatniks'/Mods'/Hippies' long time fave the Read St./Tyson St. neighborhood. That Baltimore was a fantastic place in time to shop, eat, hangout in Mount Vernon Park, happily walk the busy main streets and side streets and further off to the side streets and interesting alleys and safe sidewalks there, whilst marveling at the fantastic old architecture all around. That was also where some of the movie Pink Flamingos was filmed, because the film crew were mostly a solid group of Avant Garde Baltimore Hipsters.
In 1972, my old girlfriend Johanna and I each lived out in the suburbs of Baltimore, and we had driven together to her friends' apartment up in downtown Baltimore - to go to the show with them. They lived in one of those huge, old, wearing down, Baltimore apartment houses that have wide, deep and welcoming front porches with ornate antique doors that have beautiful stained glass transoms over top of them. Johanna and I steadily admired the old time craftsmen crafted woodwork of the front porch, staircases, wall trim and floors in that place. The friends' apartment had high ceilings and bright lighting. It was furnished in the style of young working people who know how to spend their wages wisely on really cool stuff.
It was a very cool surprise to discover that one of Johanna's friends was an old friend of mine - Mike - from them '66 era Mod days in Baltimore. Mike had sold me my first bag of marygeewanner - right underneath the tall and mighty Washington Monument on Charles St.. That first pot purchase of mine had been a scrawny little nickel bag that was cut (adulterated) with bird seeds and oregano. This was so early in the late 1960s pot smoking revolution that we Baltimore boys and girls didn't hardly have an idea of what pot is. 1960s Maryland was way behind California in all things hip and happening.
On that Pink Flamingo Premier evening, in 1972, at Mike and friends' apartment, they showed me a nice little pile of mild mannered Mexican Marijuana setting on their grand old, thrift shop purchased, big heavy dark wooden, antique dinning room table. Then they happily informed me that we could smoke some weed at the movie showing; and then one of Mike's roommates inquires about my joint rolling skills. One of my Army buddies, Bart from Frisco, had grown up two blocks from the infamous Haight-Ashbury - he used to sometimes hear outdoor Grateful Dead Concerts from his family's front porch - consequently he knew the very best techniques for rolling a good smoking joint and had taught me how to, too. So's, I sat right down at that big old friendly dining room table - with smiling faces all around me - and we two new friends rolled some up for smoking then and some for movietime.
All of a sudden, I realized that if we could smoke weed there, can we drink beer there also?, so I asked; and someone replied, with a huge smile, "Sure," so I declared I'd buy enough cold beer for us all to comfortably fortify our reefer buzz with a beer buzz. Pot and beer consumption was common practice amongst young Americans of the 1970s. Most of us survivors of them '70s party-hearty days gave that practice up a long time ago, though.
Anyways, we left that apartment with a pleasant buzz on and headed for the closest place to buy beer, then we went to the Art Institute. We sat in the college auditorium at stage left about in the middle of the fold down, padded seating on that side. The movie crew and their attending family and friends were gleefully ensconced over in the seating to the right. My guess has always been that there were fewer than 80 of us there that night.
John Waters wore a frumpled, white jump suit, and it was the thing to do at the moment. He looked absolutely marvelous, with the self assured, young, ahead of his time, struggling movie maker way he moved around in that jump suit. That frumpled-just-right-for-avant-garde-fashion-tastes jumpsuit on John just fit the scene perfectly.
The lights went down, the movie began, I handed someone close to me a joint to light, another joint was lit behind me, beer can pop tops hissed open, and what a wild night-of-a-lifetime that became.
It weren't but a few minutes till the laughs started rolling all up and down and sideways back and forth through the audience. The humor got filthier and more hilarious while the laughter grew heavier and more rib-racking-gut-busting-side splitting-debilitating with every well conceived, well written and daringly delivered punch line in the movie plot. T'weren't long before several of us actually slid sideways out of our movie seats, a time or two, and fell on the floor laughing. Not one person there could sit up straight in their seat for more than a few seconds, tops. The audience literally rocked and rolled and roared with laughter the whole movie through. By the time Devine beats out green haired - the carpet matched the rug - Connie and Raymond Marble for the title of "The Filthiest Person Alive" - when Devine definitely did munch on fresh, steaming poodle poop, on the southeast corner of Read and Tyson Streets - most of us there had laughed harder and longer than we ever had in any of our hip, young lives. We were in serious, but welcomed, pain, too - our ribs ached.
I can never forget how Devine had looked up past the movie camera and at the crew (of his close friends) behind the camera, as he slowly knelt down and munched off a piece of that doggy doo. When the scene came on, while from within me and all around me there rose a rumbling chorus of titillating "Oh no, oh no"s, I very studiously watched and fully determined that the little ol' poodle had indeed pooped, and the camera had stayed on the dog, it's droppings and Devine for the entire scene; so there were no camera tricks pulled, no chocolate flavored mashed potatoes replaced the dog doo just before Devine tasted it; and I clearly saw that Devine was quickly thinking - something to the effect of - "Waters, one way or the other, someway somehow, you are going to pay dearly for this. I want more money, your gassed up car for a week, plenty of pot, bottles of my favorite booze, plus some good nasty sex with somebody on this crew, and I'm directing that scene in my life."
After the movie ended, John Waters went up onto the stage to thank his actors and the movie crew members for their hard work, plus us others in the audience for our part in assuring him he was on his way to fame and fortune through lots more hard work and badass-artistic-ballsyness.
John beckoned for Pink Flamingos movie star Edith the Egg Lady - shyly giggling, long time thrift store maven, Edith Massey - to come up on stage, and he presented her with a beautiful bouquet of flowers.
Then I realized that Devine should have been asked up on stage to receive a bouquet too, but he was not in the audience over there with the other movie makers nor anywheres else, consequentially, I safely surmised right away why Devine probly didn't come to the premier - he was too embarrassed by the poodle poop incident.
I have not seen Pink Flamingos again, and I do not plan on seeing it again. That just seems farrrr tooo anticlimactic for my life. I mean, well now, seeing 1960s Baltimore stuff, the weird fashions the movie characters wore and hearing outlandish lines delivered throughout the story would be really good to enjoy today on clear sounding DVD; but the movie could never hit me like it did when Johanna, Mike, friends and I were hit with something near deadly hilarious that we had no idee' was comin' at us.
Writings and Photography by David Robert Crews {a.k.a. ursusdave}
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Movie Review: "Cotton, Cotton! The egg man's here, the egg man!"
Summary: 4 Stars
This film is, quite honestly, filthy, disgusting, perverse, mortifying, but most of all, hilarious. John Waters, the director of this cult classic, set out to do one with with this movie, which is gain fame, albeit it more like infamy. And he achieved it. It is not hard to see why.
If you're light-hearted, weak-stomached, or just a prude (or, to hit the coin more precisely, don't think you can sit through a graphic scene of a man practically raping a woman with a live chicken while he, in turn, rapes the chicken itself) then steer away. In fact, click the "Back" button on your Internet Explorer right now, because this not the movie for you. But if you're into gross-out, no-holds-barred cult comedy, which is, in the director's own words, a glorious exercise in bad taste, then this is your dream come true.
The plot is pretty simple. Two families vie for the title of "The Filthiest People Alive." One family (the protagonists) is that of Divine, or Babs Johnson, a disgusting, obnoxious woman with a sexually-deranged son Crackers, an egg-obsessed mother (who lives in a play-pin), Edie, and Babs' road companion Cotton. They live in a mobile home, while the antagonistic family (the Marbles) lives in a nice, suburban home. The Marbles capture young woman, pregnate them with their sex-slave, imprison them in their basement for nine months, and then sell the babies to lesbian couples while the women usually die while giving birth. And that's only a peak into their perversity. The Marbles become envious when the media begins to label Divine as the filthiest person alive, and so they then set out to destroy Divine and her family, while at the same time capturing her title for themselves.
And the things they do in pursuit of this title...
The acting is horrible, and the whole film has this homemade, videotape quality to it, but I actually believe it's these two things which make Pink Flamingos so endearing (though that may be too bold a word). The homemade, gritty cinematography certainly fortresses the film's shock factor, for throughout the entire movie, it almost feels like as if we're watching actual events some bystander was filming, and by believing these people (and the things they do) are real, we become immersed in a stupor-like shock. But at the same time, we're laughing our heads off. Near the end of the movie, Divine and her son Crackers go to the Marbles' house to spit all over their furniture, engaging in what they believe to be some ridiculous redneck voodoo spell. Later, when the Marbles try to sit on their couch, the cushions are pushed up and the couch "rejects" them to the floor.
Hilarious, shocking, gross, A CLASSIC. Good movies are good, but movies like this are even better.
Overall: A-