Jun 21, 2016

The Picky Bastards: Sound By Natural Selection


This article originally appeared in The Berkshire View magazine, here.

I defy you to find a band more spontaneous and improvisational than The Picky Bastards, Pittsfield’s premier bluegrass band. They’ve never had a rehearsal, never made a set-list, and sometimes change the song they’re playing halfway through. Core members Rob Sanzone (guitar, mandolin, harmonica, slide and dobro guitar, vocals) and Chris Merenda (banjo, guitar, vocals) play every week at Mission Bar + Tapas, and through that venue have been able to expand to play private parties, weddings, festivals, and other places in the Berkshires. Not that any of that was through conscious marketing – they’ve gained popularity and secured outside gigs purely by word-of-mouth.

I met up with Rob and Chris at Fuel in Great Barrington for sandwiches, and we talked for an hour and a half about everything under the sun. The two are clearly close friends, laughing at inside jokes and occasionally sliding into Spinal Tap-esque British voices with each other. Rob is a local through and through, raised in Berkshire County and a graduation of Monument Mountain High (as well as Amherst.) He even told me about the migration of the famous Zonker Harris sandwich from Frank’s Deli to Fuel, so you know he’s from Great Barrington. He’s been playing with bands since high-school and has experience over a wide spectrum of genres, although he has a special reverence for the complexity of bluegrass.

Chris, a New Hampshire native now living in Becket, came to the area while touring with Arlo Guthrie. He met his wife on that tour and, as he says, “she roped me in to staying here.” He started playing banjo in 2001 at Ashokan Fiddle and Dance Camp in the Catskills, a music camp in New York founded by his brother’s father-in-law. There he gained a deep love of American traditional and folk music, specifically bluegrass. One of his favorite old standards is “Shady Grove,” now a Picky Bastards staple.

The two met through Dave Brown, mandolin maestro and original founder of the Picky Bastards in 2011. The band started as a weekly picking session in the window of Mission Bar, open to local musicians. Rob and Chris took over the outfit when Dave moved to Colorado a year after it began. The band has always retained that open-jam vibe, and performs with a rotating cast of musicians every week. I had originally asked if the whole band could be present for the interview, but it turned out that they have 10 drummers alone and it would have been nearly impossible to round them all up. Additional instruments in The Picky Bastards include drums, bass, rhythm guitar, and occasionally saxophone.


“Natural selection” is a phrase that Chris brings up multiple times in reference to the band – the players, the band’s trajectory, even the songs they perform in a given evening. Their songs can be chosen based on comments from the audience, who’s in the band that night, or what’s on the radio on the way to a gig. The people they perform with come to the band by reputation and circumstance, with Rob and Chris drawing on their extensive pool of fellow local musicians. This makes every concert feel like an easy-going jam session with friends, a social experience for the band as well as the audience. As Chris says, “We laugh a lot, which maybe the audience doesn’t always enjoy. We do have some hardcore audience members who will say things like, ‘Stop talking and play!’”

Although bluegrass/Americana is the starting point for the band’s sound, they can go in any number of directions over the course of an evening. The Picky Bastards have been known to dabble in jazz fusion, pop, and classic hard rock, all while retaining their underlying bluegrass flavor. Imagine, if you can, a bluegrass version of “Eye of the Tiger,” “Billie Jean,” or Britney Spears – they’ve done it. They also perform original compositions, not wanting to be known as solely a cover band. One of Rob’s specialties is creating spontaneous medleys. He can transition seamlessly from one song to another, lapping genres and artists over the course of a single jam – and the band can always keep up with him. They are planning on recording a live album in the near future, to capture some of the extraordinary chemistry they have in their shows.

Having played with more business-driven bands in the past, The Picky Bastards is a breath of fresh air for Rob. The band has evolved organically and everyone is involved because of their genuine love of the music. “The Picky Bastards has been a blessing in my life. It’s a very Zen experience, like a great circle of friends. I owe a lot of that to Chris, because Chris is one of the most laid-back people I’ve ever met. I’m probably more the picky bastard of the two of us.” Chris, in his Big Lebowski t-shirt, laughs and agrees.

Come down to Mission Bar + Tapas on a Thursday night, 8 p.m., to hear for yourself all that these Bastards capable of doing. The show is free, so be sure to give them some love in the tip jar. If you tip, they’ll call out, “We celebrate you!”, but if you walk out without tipping they may include a call-out to you in the song they’re playing. If you have a request they promise to play it for you, or at least play something in the same genre. “We have a rule,” Chris says, laughing, “if we know at least 30% of a song, we’ll give it a try.”

May 6, 2016

Immune Friction: A match made in grunge heaven


This article originally appeared in The Berkshire View magazine, here. 

You could say that Justine Curry bluffed her way into Immune Friction. She met Chris Dayton while working in a Bennington coffee shop in 2010 and connected with him immediately; so when he said he was looking for someone to add percussion to some music he’d been writing, she said that she could play drums. When they recorded their first album as a band, The Markets Never Sleep, Justine had been teaching herself drums for only three months. “We just sort of did it,” she laughs. “The first time we jammed together we were so in sync and it just fit.” What began as Chris’ solo project morphed into a dynamic two-person band that has been rocking the Berkshires ever since.

Originally from Manhattan, Chris Dayton has been writing songs and playing guitar since he was 13. As the song “What Gives” poignantly puts it, “After school I would rehearse / Songs full of nonsense / That nobody would ever hear.” He studied classical guitar at Keene State College and performed at a lot of open mics before deciding to start his own band. He started Immune Friction as a solo act, played some shows, and recorded an album entitled Lighting Strings to Melt Wax. On their latest album, his passionate, earnest voice can go from a mumble to a shout within a few seconds. Although Chris is the lyricist for the band, both he and Justine sing – sometimes harmonizing together and sometimes alternating melodies.

Justine Curry, a Pittsfield native, has been performing since the age of 4. Between dance recitals, theatre, choirs, The Berkshire Lyric Theatre chorus, and even recording with David Grover, her fascination with music and performance has remained constant. As a girl she remembers going to Tanglewood with her family and planning to become an opera singer. She is classically trained in voice, and now contributes her mellifluous phrasing and powerful vibrato to Immune Friction. But she always loved rock music, despite her classical background; she and Chris initially bonded over a shared love of Iron Maiden.

While onstage they resemble The White Stripes, with Chris shredding on his guitar and Justine banging her drums, long black hair shaking, Immune Friction sounds very different than the famous ‘90s duo. The genre moniker they go by is “surf grunge,” bestowed on them by a fellow musician in Vermont. The subgenre encapsulates their ‘60s pop sensibilities (think The Kinks) with the raw energy and emotion of grunge. But their music also has the frenetic post-punk inventiveness of Sonic Youth, Doors-like classical guitar flourishes, and Rage Against the Machine noise breakdowns. The most immediate band comparison that comes to mind is Nirvana, though, which Chris’ blue eyes and shaggy hair only serve to reinforce.



One might think that a two-person band would inevitably sound sparse, but Immune Friction manages to produce a fully fleshed-out wall of raucous sound. Chris explained that he often tunes down to a lower pitch to accommodate for the lack of bass guitar, and Justine employs a lot of bass drum. She says, “People are like, ‘it’s just you two making all that racket?’ We’ll make noise with anything – guitar on cymbals, drumsticks on guitar, anything.” They’re known for their dynamic live shows; it says a lot that friends and fans have been known to follow them from gig to gig. “When people come out to see us, they’re going to get a good show,” Justine says. “Sometimes we don’t even know what we’re going to do! We try stuff out, sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t.” Chris laughs and adds sheepishly, “It can be a little scary sometimes.”

Amanda Palmer talks about falling in “rock love” when she met her Dresden Dolls bandmate Brian Viglione, and this term kept coming to mind while I was talking with Chris and Justine. They both have so-called day jobs – Chris is a videographer and 2nd-grade teacher while Justine is a realtor – but Immune Friction provides them with alternate indie-rock-star lives, existing as testaments to their creative passion and drive. As Justine describes herself: “realtor by day, drummer by night.” The two live together in Bennington with their five beloved cats – altogether, not at all a bad life.


Ethical Dilemmas is Immune Friction’s fantastic new album, recorded with punk/hardcore veteran Don Fury in Troy, NY and just released mid-April. It is available on iTunes, Amazon, Google Play, Bandcamp, CD Baby, and YouTube Music. The duo is going to be touring around New England over the next couple of months – in May they are coming to Saratoga, Williamstown, Bennington, and Pittsfield. For more information and to stay updated on all their activities, visit their website or check out their Facebook page.

Apr 26, 2016

Party Like it's 1939: Swing Dancing at Race Brook Lodge


This article originally appeared in The Berkshire View magazine, here. 

“Basically everyone’s up for grabs – it doesn’t matter how good or bad or ugly you are!”

Laughter bubbled up from the crowd, a circle assembled around two dancers in the middle of a barn. The MC is explaining the dancing game of Snowball: one couple starts dancing for a bit, until someone yells “Snowball!” – then each person has to grab a new partner from the crowd. Repeat until the whole room is dancing, young with old, swing aficionados with newbies, guys in boots with pretty girls in bell skirts. I was taking notes on the sidelines when a redhead with dreadlocks scampered over to me on bare feet and snatched me up, pulling me into the beautifully swirling melee.

This night of swing dancing happened on April 8 at Race Brook Lodge, in their 160-year-old barn – a beautiful piece of rustic construction. Chinese paper lanterns swayed from the rafters and soft tea-lights glowed in Mason jars. The room was suffused with the warm babble of conversation. This is one of the many live music and dance events that happen at Race Brook Lodge, like the Down County Social Club events on Thursday nights.

Everyone is welcome, regardless of skill level, and the hour-long lesson before the dancing starts definitely helps out everyone. I went with a group of friends, some of whom were seasoned swing dancers and others who had never danced before. The relaxed, welcoming atmosphere helped us all to melt into the crowd easily and join the party. Social dancing is making in certain circles, and there is a somewhat unexpected modern swing scene emerging today. I had some dance experience because when I was at college in Chicago two years ago, I was a member of the student swing dancing club. I got a small flush of pride when the redhead I was dancing with said, “You’re a swing dancer!”



All night the band One Straw Revolution kept the dancing going with jazz and blues standards, from the sultry “Angel Eyes” to the frenetically fun “It Don’t Mean a Thing (If It Ain’t Got That Swing)”. The five-member band has been playing together for thirty years and this is their fourth time performing at Race Brook. They took their name from a book by Japanese sustainable-farmer and philosopher Masanobu Fukuoka. Guitarist Jonathan Suters joins his father Roger Suters on bass, along with some friends. They write their own music, in addition to performing standards and covers. Guitarist/vocalist Bobby MacVeety looks around admiringly, with his hat cocked back on his head, and says that he loves the acoustics of this barn. He also loves to dance, and would if he could tonight.

Outside the barn is a cozy bonfire, to which people withdraw occasionally to smoke, talk, or just listen to the wind sifting through the tops of the trees. I bought a glass of red wine from the cash bar and went outside to join the ragtag circle of people standing close to the warm flames. Race Brook Lodge has a renovated speakeasy vibe to it, and the swirling swing dancers don’t seem at all out of place in a barn, surrounded by peaceful forest. This was a night of throwback fun with fashion to match; as one of the organizers, Amillie Coster, said to my friend Maria, “Everyone else here looks like a farmer, but you’ve got that swing look we were missing – like Betty Boop.”

If you missed this swing night, there will be another Down County Social Club swing event on April 30, with the Hot Club of Saratoga (boasting a highly danceable gypsy jazz sound.) In May you can catch shows at Race Brook Lodge by Oakes & Smith, EarthBlu, and Emily Danger. For more information visit www.rblodge.com or check out their Facebook page.

Mar 26, 2016

DJ BFG: Beats for Geeks and Booty-Focused Grooves


This article originally appeared in The Berkshire View magazine, here. 

In Gypsy Joynt, everyone’s favorite grunge Wonderland, DJ BFG is strutting in place in black heels, rocking over the technofunk wails coming from their Serato mixer. The fringe on the rafters is shaking but nobody is dancing yet, just sipping their drinks and eyeing the open floor with feigned nonchalance. A potpourri of pop culture sounds thunders from the speakers – hooks from classic dance and hip-hop tracks blended through hypnotic, winding beats. The DJ nods and bobs their head, headphones pulsing with sound. Suddenly, a gaggle of preteen girls leap out onto the floor and start twirling in their Ugg boots.

DJ BFG is in fact Gabriel Squalia, a multi-genre DJ and fixture at all the best Berkshires parties. Currently based in Pittsfield, they have been working in the area for 15 years and seem to know everyone. But they got their start at a bar in Queens, NYC, as well as their name. The bar is called Fatty’s, and owner jocularly referred to everyone who came into the bar as Fatty; so on their first night the sandwich-board outside read, “Tonight: Big Fat Gabriel DJ-ing.” Gabriel says, “I looked and saw BFG, thought of the Roald Dahl book, and thought well, we’ll just work out what this means later. So over the years I’ve interpreted it to mean Beats for Geeks, the name of my annual best-of-the-year playlist, and my personal favorite, Booty-Focused Grooves.”

It was a case of writer’s block that started Gabriel in becoming a DJ. They write “dark, funny fiction in fantasy worlds” à la Neil Gaiman or China Mieville, and plotted their first full-fledged novel at age 10. Dead Boys (2015) is their most recent release, and they’re currently working on a book called Viscera. But while living in New York and not being able to write, they realized that, “I would make mix CDs for people, and I was spending so much time doing this that it started to seem a little odd to me. Like, I’m a grown person and I’m still spending so much of my life making mixes for people.” Luckily Scratch DJ Academy had recently opened in the city by Jam Master Jay of Run DMC, and from one class Gabriel knew they had hit upon something great.


Close attention and a symbiotic relationship with their crowd is what makes DJ BFG so good at what they do. They are happy to take requests, and see them as helpful in knowing what their crowd wants, although it’s something they’ve adapted to over the years. “At a great party, there’s a moment where everything kind of clicks into place and everyone decides that I’m allowed to do whatever I want, and that’s what I kind of aim for,” they explain. “The sooner we can get that out of the way, the better. It usually takes about an hour unless people are already very drunk; then it can be foreshortened.”  At their show at Gypsy Joynt, I downed a couple “Sex on a Surfboard” cocktails (antifreeze-blue, tastes like liquid gummy bear) and stepped out onto the empty dance-floor with my friend. Others followed soon after and it turned into a real dance party, shaking hips and hair amid cheers at each surge or beat-drop. And Gabriel was right with us. As they say, “The way I think about my job, I have half my brain behind the turntables and half my brain on the dance-floor.”

Gabriel identifies as non-binary and genderqueer, something that has been ongoing throughout their life but only recently become part of their public persona. It has been something that feels right both for their career and life, although slight compromises are occasionally helpful in professional situations. “For the moment I am happy to do some dress-up and present as masculine when I’m sitting down for an initial wedding interview,” they explain. Much of Gabriel’s work comes in the May-October wedding and gala season. They have performed at the Simon’s Rock College Mayfest/Prom for nearly a decade and are the Special Events DJ for Jacob’s Pillow Dance Festival. They’re also a Gypsy Joynt regular, currently performing monthly and weekly during July-August.



If you’d like to get in touch with them to make your next bash something unforgettable, you can email them at thebfg.dj@gmail.com.

Apr 26, 2015

Mental Illness and Homelessness: A Vicious Cycle

[Written as a final project for my winter quarter Journalism class -- March 13, 2015]

Dan (left) and Bonnie, out on State St. 

The common stereotype of the crazy homeless person muttering to themselves on a street-corner is rooted in real systematic oppression and neglect. It’s a zero-degree day in the Loop and three homeless men stand to warm themselves in front of a large vent on Van Buren St.: Longworth, Levi, and Stan. Stan is visibly drunk, speaking in short bursts with a bottle of vodka clutched in his mitten. As we walk away from the trio Bonnie McNulty, another homeless Chicagoan, says, “Stan was in rare form today.” Usually he walks down the street yelling at passers-by, but today he was able to self-medicate with alcohol to escape the schizophrenia he suffers from. He’s been on the streets with his friend Longworth since 1990.

Self-medication through alcohol and drugs is a common reaction among mentally ill homeless people to the lack of care they receive. Even if a homeless person gains access to psychiatric medication they will often not have regular therapy to go along with it; this causes them to go off their meds and seek comfort elsewhere. Bonnie, who was diagnosed at 13 with bipolar disorder and later with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), has had this experience. A lack of therapy also means that she was unable to manage the bad reactions she’s had to medication. She says, “Lithium is not a very friendly drug.” The lack of support caused her to go off her medication entirely – it wasn’t helping and only made her feel “like a zombie.”

Bonnie says that she understands why some people with mental illness are averse to taking medication at all. For schizophrenic people who hear voices, “It’s comforting to have a conversation with somebody every day. Nobody wants to be alone.” She once gave a slice of pizza to another homeless woman who then proceeded to talk animatedly into an empty storefront window for half an hour.

She describes another woman she knew who slept under a bridge for eight months, refusing to take money from anyone or go to a shelter, remaining sedentary outside until her legs swelled up and turned black. The woman had an untreated mental illness. It is much more difficult to deal with mental illness while also trying to survive on the street. As Bonnie describes her bipolar disorder, “It’s like that Norman Rockwell painting with the man selling balloons, only each balloon is a thought. He’s somehow let go of the balloons and is grabbing at them all, trying to catch them.”

According to the National Coalition for the Homeless, 20-25 percent of homeless people in the United States suffer from a severe mental illness. In an effort to address homelessness itself, Obama proposed a $301 million increase in the housing budget – but it stalled in Congress. While providing housing is an immediate prerogative in fighting homelessness, it has been shown that mental health counseling services help to ensure that people can keep those homes. Too often a vicious cycle is created by lack of treatment, the result of which is a life spent in and out of shelters, hospitals, psych wards, jails, and other institutions that do not provide ongoing care.

Diagram from “Mental Illness and Homelessness,” by Mieke Dale-Harris of Econintersect LLC. Copyright 2013.  

Growing up underprivileged with a dysfunctional home life will also predispose a mentally ill person to homelessness. Levi, also warming himself by the Van Buren vent, is a former member of the Chicago gang, Gangster Disciples. He says, “I’m a product of Larry Hoover [the founder of GD]! I come from a 16-story project and I didn’t have no mom or dad. They were my mom and dad.” It is difficult to diagnose mental illness at a glance but Levi was manic and paranoid, spitting out his words and not wanting to say his last name out loud because he “don’t trust [his] friends.” Bonnie suspects that he has PTSD and possibly schizophrenia.

Schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, depression, and PTSD are the most common afflictions among homeless people. The prevalence of mental illness is not a new phenomenon, dating back to the policies of the Reagan era. Karl Nass, Associate Director of the Vincentian Community Service Office at DePaul University, says that, “It has to do with the history of deinstitutionalization. Funds were not in place once folks were let go from mental hospitals, often into unsafe urban environments, and their conditions were exacerbated.”

He says that he is “saddened and angry with the lack of funding,” but “hopeful about change from activists and advocates.” He also says that housing needs to be offered in conjunction with counseling services – “Research has shown that an integrated, holistic response seems to be wisest.” Karl teaches a course at DePaul on homelessness in which he strives to alter students’ preconceptions about homeless people. He remembers that when he worked at his first shelter as an undergraduate in Madison, WI, his own notions about homeless people were completely altered as a result of simply interacting with them. Once stereotypes are broken, simple human compassion can come through.

Bonnie and her friend Dan Rusick often stick together on the streets. Dan is not mentally ill himself, although he has seen its effects first-hand. In a Starbucks he points out a violent schizophrenic homeless boy who once took food from Bonnie by force. He says that he isn’t close to many other homeless people because you need to protect yourself. “All we have is what we own on our body and our word. And then somebody breaks it – after that, it’s hard to trust anybody else.”

Many of Chicago’s homeless people struggle unaided with mental disorders, but all of them have vibrant inner lives that can only be guessed at by those who drop quarters into their cups. On the walk to Harold Washington Library to use the public bathroom (one of the few he has access to), Dan tells me how he loves to escape into books – in a way, his own positive form of self-medication. His favorite author is William S. Burroughs. He says, “I probably am depressed, but I won’t let myself get depressed. It’s there, around the corner.”

This is Dan looking "normal." He told me that when he takes off all his layers, his well-worn coat, people would treat him better because he doesn't "look" homeless. 


Feb 18, 2015

Pączki-Eating Competition on Valentine's Day


This Valentine’s Day I found myself standing in a small crowd outside Bennison’s Bakery in Evanston watching eight men and boys compete in a pączki-eating contest. Mothers stood with babies and toddlers to cheer on their fathers, bundled against the icy, lacerating wind.  Plump pastries – in flavors of strawberries and cream, chocolate, praline mousse, prune, apple, apricot, cream cheese, or bananas and cream – are rapidly consumed down the line of tables as the crowd cheers, laughs, and murmurs “Oh my Lord…”

A pączki – pronounced “poosh-key” or “pawnch-key,” depending on who you ask – is a rich Polish donut with jam or cream filling. They’re truly wonderful, something that Bennison’s Bakery has specialized in since its opening in 1938. Bennison’s is packed and bustling today with orders for Valentine’s Day and Mardi Gras (Fat Tuesday is known as Pączki Day in some circles, after all.) The atmosphere is warm and intimate inside, with four coffee pots piping on burners behind the counter and the scent of baking sugar mingling with easy-listening jazz in the air.

Outside, things are a little colder and harsher but no less convivial. The competition is varied; some chew determinedly and take time to swallow, while others cram fistfuls of pastry into their mouths in between slugs of water. Patrick, a habitual competitive eater, eats with two hands bloodied by strawberry filling. After the five minutes are up, he is declared the winner with 25 pączki. Patrick then bites with exaggerated nonchalance into yet another pączki, to laughter and the soft thudding of mittened applause.

This is Bennison’s 6th Annual Pączki-Eating Contest, and one of today’s competitors was in fact the winner of the first. This year he brought along his 10-year-old son, Kyle, to compete with him as a team. Before the competition, Kyle predicted that he would eat three pączki and that’s exactly what he did. The other competitors ranged from lanky twenty-somethings to middle-aged men.

All proceeds from the competition will go to Phil’s Friends, a cancer support charity. Each contestant was sent home with a t-shirt, a Bennison’s gift card, and as many pączki as they could carry.

Feb 4, 2015

Hardships for Homeless Chicagoans


Although Chicago winters are brutal for everybody, they hit the homeless the hardest. Bonnie has been homeless for 8 years, in DuPage County and her native Chicago, and recently had her backpack stolen. She had four blankets in there, to wear in addition to her multiple shirts and jacket. That was right on State Street, where she has been sitting out tonight for 2 hours and has made $1.45.

“Have a great night, enjoy your weekend!” Bonnie makes a point of never directly aggressively asking passers-by for money. “I don’t want pity money,” she says. Her cardboard sign reads, “Homeless single mom trying to get a room + meal, Please help $22 will get a room! Thank you + God bless you!”

Some of the shelters she uses are Casa Central Shelter, Thresholds, Grace Place, and Safe Haven. Bonnie says that homeless people should stay away from Pacific Garden Mission in the South Loop – a place notorious for assault, theft, and mandatory Bible study. Many of these organizations have street teams that walk outside looking for homeless people to invite to warming centers. They also offer food, blankets, and “goodie bags” of basic essentials like socks and toothpaste.

Last winter Bonnie stayed at O’Hare from January to April. “They were actually very kind,” she says, provided that the homeless people there followed the rules and kept themselves clean (one of the biggest difficulties of living on the street.) Laughing, she told me that she had scabies that year and locked the door to an O'Hare bathroom so she could take a bath -- sneaking some well-deserved, necessary self-care time. She has also slept in police stations and hospitals overnight.

Money is not the only difficulty in finding a shelter for the night. Bonnie said, “It’s really unfortunate, but there aren’t many rooms for women. There are more for men.” One of her main priorities in finding a place to stay is keeping her 11-year-old daughter safe. Her name is Alexis and “she’s the light of [her] life.” She never takes Alexis out with her when she tries to gather money because, as she says, “Some people exploit their children that way.” On the night I talked with her, Alexis was staying with her grandmother.

Bonnie’s faith in God has kept her going through the years. She was diagnosed with cancer in 2009 and has since had 9 surgeries. The doctors originally gave her only a year to live. “I gave it all to God. I don’t know if you believe in God, but I sure do.”

She told me, “A lot of people think we did this to ourselves, and that it will never happen to them... You wouldn’t believe how many homeless people there are in Chicago. And they [other people] look at you like you’re dirt under their shoe.” Bonnie is currently applying for government disability payments. But until then, she is unable to work and lives on the streets. She survives through her own perseverance, ingenuity, and the charity of others.

“I would love to work. I would love to work. It’s really hard to sit out here.”

If you or someone you know needs help staying warm on the streets, call the Illinois Department of Human Services at (800) 843-6154. You can also dial 311 to request a ride to a shelter or neighborhood warming center.

Oct 28, 2014

The Psychopath Sideshow


It is two weeks before Halloween and I’m standing inside a tent with a man in smeared clown makeup shouting at me: “Are you all ready to see some sick, twisted shit?” This is Rob Zombie’s Great American Nightmare, an attraction of three haunted houses way out in Villa Park, Illinois, and I'm about to go into the serial killer house. The outer façade is resplendent in sensationalistic Americana with a healthy dash of psychobilly: hay bales, jack-o-lanterns, rusted metal, a sharp-toothed taxidermy monkey, and gaudy signs advertising attractions inside. One painted clapboard sign reads, “SEE – the PSYCHO of PLAINFIELD – A TRUE CANNIBAL.” Ed Gein is the famous killer the sign is referencing; he robbed graves, murdered two women, and allegedly (though likely not) cannibalized corpses in bucolic 1950’s Plainfield, Wisconsin. A sign almost exactly like this was once hung outside a carnival tent in 1958 to advertise a strikingly similar exhibition of serial killer entertainment. The difference is that in this 2014 haunted house there is an actor in a hunting cap playing Ed Gein, leering at the audience from his wood-shed filled with eviscerated plastic bodies; at the 1958 fair, there was a murder scene reconstructed with wax dummies in the very car that Ed Gein drove when he committed his crimes. This haunted house seems almost like a nostalgic attraction, perhaps taking some of its own authenticity-credibility from the fact that its recreational thrills are based in real-life tragedy.

The "Ed Gein ghoul car" made its first public appearance in July 1958 at the Outgamie County Fair in Seymour, Wisconsin, where it was displayed for three days inside a large canvas tent covered with blaring signs – ‘SEE THE CAR THAT HAULED THE DEAD FROM THEIR GRAVES! YOU READ IT IN ‘LIFE’ MAGAZINE! IT’S HERE! ED GEIN’S CRIME CAR! $1,000 REWARD IF NOT TRUE!’” The exhibit was soon shut down by public outcry, but Ed Gein has endured as a celebrity monster in America, inspiring the creation of iconic horror movies such as The Texas Chain Saw Massacre (1974) and Psycho (1960). Almost any famous serial killer can be substituted in this example of pop-culture entertainment – serial killers proliferate in film, television shows, true-crime novels, magazines, internet culture, and in the lexicon of Americana. Serial killers have been cast as our modern freakshow scapegoats, commodified subjects of psychological study and prurient interest in true-crime television and a wide array of media.

[The two paragraphs above mark the start of my undergraduate thesis as it stands right now (at 2.35 am, in draft form.) What follows is the rest of the "sick, twisted shit" I saw at the haunted house...]

A girl in blonde pigtails told us, "Keep your arms in at all times, or they will get chopped the fuck off."

The clown told the crowd, carnival-barker style, "Inside, you will see Jeffrey Dahmer *a few cheers* and a local favorite, John Waaaaayne Gacy! *loud cheers and whoops*"

As you walk in there's Lizzie Borden, hair hung raggedy and wild, banging an axe against the wall. Albert Fish jumped out at you from a door-frame, into a kitchen where a mother wept over a filthy, bubbling pot with a little girl's white shoe next to it. Erzebet Bathory was striding regally around a red-lit room crowing, "More blood, more blood!" as a water jet emptied into a tub from a female dummy hanging naked from the ceiling. Skinny Richard Chase was twitching in a fluorescent-lit living room with bodies torn open on the floor. We walked through H.H. Holmes' torture workshop and he told us, in a dapper derby hat and vest, "No, no, everything's fine" as he forced a screaming girl back into a cupboard.

There was even the complete Sharon Tate murder scene, spread out over two rooms and designed with intricate detail. Manson was proselytizing to the crowd, boring holes into people with his eyes, while his followers capered around the bodies gleefully. Haunted houses involve a strange combination of marveling at your surroundings while also giving into the desire to flee from perceived danger and jarring sensations. In this house, however, I felt no fear and wanted to soak it all in like a museum. The actors would occasionally seem annoyed with me and urge me along with an extra jumpscare or two.

The John Wayne Gacy room was shockingly obscene, and has been causing some controversy (obviously, this particular tragedy hits close to home for Chicagoans.) There was a tubby Gacy, dressed in his clown costume, sitting in an armchair surrounded by debris and clutter. He was wriggling his feet delightedly as he blew up balloons and popped them, smiling and hissing sexual threats to the passers-by. Facing him on the couch across from the chair were two dummies of small Boy Scouts, one with a long balloon forced into his mouth and his eyes squeezed shut in pain. Gacy said, "Ya like that? Want me to teach you how? Bet you already know how!" -- then he would taper off into shrill giggles.

I wrote down every sensory detail I could recall once I was out of the house -- there were also representations of David Berkowitz, Ed Gein (mixed with Norman Bates,) and Jeffrey Dahmer. After some minimal online research, I found that Rob Zombie had lifted the sets, costumes, and even physical stunts from a much more effective and interesting serial killer haunted house that was put on in New York City in 2012. It was called "Killers: A Nightmare Haunted House" and offered better acting, more engagement with the audience, and some small critique of the cultural fascination with killers. Rob Zombie primarily make horror fanfiction anyway, with his Halloween remake and his first film, House of 1,000 Corpses, being a blatant-but-mediocre send-up of the original Texas Chain Saw Massacre... and it's obviously worked to his advantage, however unimaginatively.

I'm disgusted with myself for having so much fun at this serial killer haunted house. Morally, it should not exist; but it does and it is turning a considerable profit.





Dec 16, 2013

The M.P.A.A. and Lo. Lee. Ta.

This is a final paper I wrote for a class called "Sexual Revolution: Hollywood in the 1960s", taught by the lovely Michael DeAngelis of DePaul University. Again, not really journalism but definitely in the realm of pop culture academic noodling, so I thought it would fit in nicely on here. 


"While it is true that in ancient Europe, and well into the 18th century (obvious examples come from France), deliberate lewdness was not inconsistent with flashes of comedy, or vigorous satire, or even the verve of a fine poet in a wanton mood, it is also true that in modern times the term 'pornography' connotes mediocrity, commercialism, and certain strict rules of narration."
 -- Vladimir Nabokov, On a Book Entitled 'Lolita' (1959)

For as long as the rights to Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita have been bandied about Hollywood, the story has had a reputation for being unfilmable. As Jon Lewis says, “The negative buzz was complicated by the fact that the topic of the screenplay – Humbert’s affair with his underage stepdaughter – was, to many in the business, unfilmable and doomed in the first place” (294). Nonetheless, market potential was realized, coupled with an opportunity to capitalize on the censorship stir the book had made, and initially Nabokov was brought in to write the screenplay for his novel. It turns out that his tyrannical brilliance as a prose stylist and creator did not translate well into the medium of film – he delivered a monster of a screenplay, lengthy and obtuse, giving himself a cameo as a butterfly collector that Humbert Humbert bumps into (BBC). It was ultimately rejected, and Lolita’s first Hollywood treatment came from Stanley Kubrick in 1962. Sue Lyon, a 14-year-old girl from Iowa, was her first incarnation on celluloid. This paper examines the representation of the character of Lolita in American media, specifically the notoriety and cultural situation of Kubrick’s film adaptation.


The sad truth that one immediately comes up against when examining Lolita is that Lolita herself only exists through Humbert’s own artistic interpretation of her, because the novel is presented as his written confession (or, Confession of a White Widowed Male). So from the start, she is an image perceived by someone else. Urbane, educated, pedophilic Humbert makes for an unreliable narrator to say the least. Lolita’s personality still shines through, but she is mostly engaging as an extension of Humbert’s imagination and vivid dream-life. In trying to recreate her character on film, as a real starlet rather than just the starlet of Humbert’s eye, a director has to take on Humbert’s perspective to some degree in order to tell his story. “Lolita is at once a chance for the male narrator (and author and director as well) to redeem and make immortal their own stardom, and the recognition that this stardom will always entail failure since it depends on making into a star a girl who will outgrow those features which made her capable of being a star in the first place” (Power, 3). The novel is framed as a confession, an apology; the story instantly has an element of the pathetic in it, the failure – desires impossible to be realized. This does not translate well into the setting of moralistic 1962 Hollywood. 

Pedophilia – what Humbert calls nympholepsy – is a hard sell, and the way that Kubrick chooses to frame it is questionable: as a black comedy. In his adaptation, the character of Claire Quilty (originally a shadowy, corrupted side-character who eventually abducts Lolita away from Humbert and tries to get her to act in his pornographic films) is inflated beyond all recognition by Peter Sellers. Humbert (James Mason) is relegated to playing Quilty’s straight man in a number of scenes, giving terse answers and chilly responses to Quilty’s bumbling. In one such scene the two are on the balcony of a hotel lobby and Quilty, disguised as a policeman, offers to procure a bridal suite for Humbert and his little girl, saying, “She wasn’t so little! Fairly tall little girl!” and laughing nervously all the while. The dominion of the Motion Picture Production Code at this time perhaps made this kind of lukewarm, joking innuendo necessary. If Kubrick wanted to have any kind of commercial success with his film, he would have to somehow make pedophilia palatable by distracting as much as possible from the true implications of the story.  



Another way in which Kubrick attempts to downplay the pedophilic aspects of Lolita is by making actress Sue Lyon appear as mature as possible. In the film, the first shot of Lolita (pivotal in sealing Humbert’s helpless, lavishing devotion to her) is of her lounging on a towel in the garden, in a modeling pose, wearing a bikini, feathered sunhat, and cats-eye sunglasses. She slowly tips her glasses down her nose and stares frankly back at Humbert. All throughout the film this Lolita is perfectly groomed and poised, with smooth, curled hair and neat clothing. This scene is treated very differently in Adrian Lyne’s 1997 re-imagined adaptation; Lo is lying on her stomach, in pigtails, reading a movie magazine and wriggling her bare feet in the shower of the lawn sprinkler. She turns her head, notices Humbert staring, and smiles widely. The audience keenly feels the hideous shock of her mouth full of braces, her obvious girlishness, after following Humbert’s and the camera’s gaze up and down her body. This is much more in keeping with the novel’s description of the moment: “In the course of the sun-shot moment that my glance slithered over the kneeling child…while I passed by her in my adult disguise (a great big handsome hunk of movieland manhood), the vacuum of my soul managed to suck in every detail of her bright beauty…” (Nabokov, 39). 

It is obviously much more comfortable, morally, to have Lolita be a teenager rather than a child. “Certainly Kubrick had a vested interest in making his Lolita look as old as possible on the grounds that a teenager was less likely to fall foul of the Production Code Authority than might an ostensible twelve-year-old. In keeping with the general calculated vagueness of the film, however, Lolita’s age is never actually given at all on-screen” (Vickers, 117). The interesting thing about this avoidance of the pedophilia issue is that Kubrick’s marketing strategy relied entirely on the book’s controversial reputation. This reputation was mostly based on hearsay rather than legal action: “But the feared American obscenity trial never took place – at least not in a courtroom. Instead the book became the butt of endless jokes and cartoons. Again America was absorbing something controversial into its popular culture instead of subjecting it to a witch hunt” (Vickers, 51). According to promotional materials, Kubrick’s film was not an attempt to make Lolita respectable; the film was labeled “For Persons over 18 Years of Age,” making Sue Lyon unable to attend the premiere. So, the audience was tantalized by the air of scandal surrounding the story but ultimately denied any visual representation of it in the film. There is no sex in Kubrick’s Lolita – the scene always fades to black before anything morally questionable happens. As Elisabeth Landsenson says, “The publicity campaign for the film featured the rhetorical question ‘How did they ever make a film of LOLITA?’; Hollywood wags aptly responded: they didn’t” (217). 

This lack of sexuality was thoroughly remedied by Adrian Lyne in his 1997 adaptation, which was initially denied release in the United States but received high praise from Dmitri Nabokov, the author’s son and manager of his literary affairs. Lyne knew what he was getting into with this allegedly unfilmable story, but was eventually able to get circulation in the U.S. with the support of Showtime; “Unlike major studios, which continue to protect their public image and decline to take risks with films that might cause them trouble with the general public, Showtime successfully hawked Lolita as a film everyone else in the business was too ‘chicken’ to screen” (Lewis, 296). So even in a post-Production Code era, adapting Lolita to film becomes a kind of defiance – a protest to censorship in the name of art. I would argue that Lyne’s film does have more artistic merit than Kubrick’s, as it stays very faithful to the story arc and narrative style of the novel. It does not excise certain elements of humor from the story, but doesn’t go down the farcical black comedy route that the 1962 version does – instead the film evokes an atmosphere of overwhelmingly poignant tragedy, portraying the desperate wreckage of Humbert’s life and the pain it causes everyone around him. 

Although the story is Humbert’s, Lolita the girl will become the central image of the film by virtue of Humbert’s obsession with her, making her casting choice seem much more important. There is more riding on the power of her image on screen, just by nature of her role in the story. Adrian Lyne’s casting call for the part was as follows: “Lolita: legally 18, must look 13-17, she is very much a regular American kid, but more knowing, sensual and un-inhibited than we might expect. Possesses the sort of ambiguous beauty that can go from childlike to intensely erotic at the blink of an eye. A combination of innocence and provocation that should affect every man in the audience. Nudity required” (Lewis, 293). Actresses Dominique Swain (1997) and Sue Lyon become the bearers of meaning – the heavy implications of Humbert’s own obsessive devotion and the tragic waste of their childhoods. So although they are the faces of the film, so to speak, their powerful presence is not as characters but as tools of sexual insinuation. Laura Mulvey articulates this phenomenon beautifully: “The man controls the film fantasy and also emerges as the representative of power in a further sense: as a bearer of the look of the spectator, transferring it behind the screen to neutralize the extra-diegetic tendencies represented by women as spectacle” (5). Disturbingly enough, these Lolitas cannot be sympathetic characters because they are not even really characters: they are part of the spectacle of the movie’s titillating central theme. Moreover, they are idealized hallucinations of Humbert’s fascination, recounted for the audience through the viewpoint of his narrative. 

The staging of Lolita’s actions is essentially fetishistic, perhaps inescapably so. The opening title sequence of Kubrick’s adaptation shows a young foot being cradled and its nails painted by a rough, masculine hand. The effect is appropriately chilling, but mostly because of what the audience already knows about the story in the film to come. This scene also foreshadows the way in which the film will continually strive to present seemingly innocuous actions as sexual innuendo – being unable to show the real thing, according to the Production Code. An early moment of this innocuous innuendo occurs when Lolita is hula-hooping in the backyard with Humbert watching her from a lawn chair. There is nothing sensual or lascivious in the utilitarian movement of her hips, and yet the audience put on their guard to notice any hint of lewdness. The moment ends with Charlotte – Lolita’s mother, enamored of Humbert – snaps a picture of him from the front porch and crows, “See how relaxed you’re getting?” It seems that the voyeuristic aspect of cinema is heightened when you tell the story of Lolita; because of context, the audience is forced to view the young actress in a sexual light. The camera pulls your gaze in, focuses it, as a constant reminder of who the narrator is and what his intentions are. Sue Lyon smolders and smiles, seeming to enjoy the attention of Humbert and the audience. 

Sexual innuendo takes an interesting turn in the appearance of Jean and John Farlow, friends of Charlotte’s who – in the 1962 film – meet Humbert at a middle-school dance. When Charlotte leaves to dance with John, Jean turns to Humbert and says, “We could sorta swap partners… When you get to know me better you’ll find that I’m extremely broad-minded. In fact, John and I, we’re both… broad-minded.” She might as well have winked at Humbert and jostled him with her elbow, the insinuation is so clear. Instead Jean just smiles up at him mischievously, in the lingering silence, waiting for the movie-going audience to get it. This small episode, entirely absent from the novel, seems to be an attempt to make Lolita more timely by referencing the swinger phenomenon that came to prominence in the 1960s. It also paints Humbert as a stodgy relic of a sexually repressed Victorian/Old-World sensibility, a social misconception that works to his favor in hiding behind an air of false respectability. Charlotte will sometimes delightedly coo to him, “Oh, Hum, you’re so delightfully Old World!” and try to get him to break out of his shell, unaware of his complete lack of attraction and faint repulsion to her. 

Although Lolita has been described as a story of young, innocent America being corrupted by the Old World that Humbert is said to represent, Nabokov vehemently denies that that was his intention in writing the novel. Referencing the charge that Lolita is anti-American, Nabokov says, “This is something that pains me considerably more than the idiotic accusation of immorality. Considerations of depth and perspective (a suburban lawn, a mountain meadow) led me to build a number of North American sets. I needed a certain exhilarating milieu” (315). Kubrick’s film does not fall into this anti-American trap, and does not even acknowledge the aspects of the novel that critique Hollywood culture and its early oversexualization of young girls. In the novel, there are references to Humbert resembling a movie actor on which Lo has a crush; once he realizes this he exploits it to his advantage. He says to himself, as narrator, “All at once I knew I could kiss her throat or the wick of her mouth with perfect impunity. I knew that she would let me do so, and even close her eyes as Hollywood teaches” (Nabokov, 48). In Kubrick’s film adaptation, Lolita carries herself like a movie-star and revels in Humbert’s attention, at times aping the flirtatious technique of a Hollywood temptress. Charlotte, played by Shelley Winters, at one point rants about her daughter, “Now she sees herself as some sort of starlet! Well I see her as a sturdy, healthy, but decidedly homely child!” On the cue of “decidedly homely child,” Humbert cracks a walnut he is holding in his hands in exaggerated shock – another attempt at comedy.

In addition to critiquing popular Hollywood culture, the novel hints at cinematic ideas that might’ve been in Nabokov’s later “unfilmable” screenplay. Looking at a wanted poster, Humbert muses, “Sullen Sullivan came with a caution: Is believed armed, and should be considered extremely dangerous. If you want to make a movie out of my book, have one of those faces gently melt into my own, while I look” (222). Nabokov had an awareness of the problematic implications of translating his novel to film, but its dependence on linguistic style makes the task very difficult. Perhaps he was predicting the cultural impact, the stir his story would create, and wanted to influence some of the early incarnations of Lolita. Although his screenplay was rejected, he was still asked to provide input on some production decisions in Kubrick’s film (as a gesture of courtesy more than anything, as none of them were heeded.) As Graham Vickers tells it, “We may charitably assume that Nabokov’s otherwise absurd suggestion that a ‘dwarfess’ be hired to play Lolita was simply a comment designed to avert any charge of being implicated in the corrupting of a living, breathing child. He had no need to worry: others would take care of the corrupting. They had been doing it in Hollywood for years” (53). 

There are many, many rich themes in Nabokov’s Lolita aside from pedophilia: obsessive love, loss of childhood, the rose-tinted glasses of memory, high culture meeting low culture, sociopathy, the voluptuous beauty of descriptive language (“Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.” [Nabokov, 9]): these are all mined to great effect by Adrian Lyne in his reimagining of the film. And yet the narrative framing of Kubrick’s film has endured in population culture, with the heart-shaped glasses from the promotional poster becoming cultural shorthand for a sexual young girl. In a recent music video, pop artist Leah LaBelle tries to twist this imagery in a female-empowerment way, by surrounding herself with fawning, shirtless men in heart-shaped glasses (to unclear effect), while singing lines like, “Baby I was born to make you do something you’ve never done / You’ll be forever young / I’m your Lolita / Uh oh oh oh” (Epic Records). She also culls the look of her blouse and skirt worn in the music video from Lyne’s 1997 Lolita – it’s a potpourri of cultural references. This endurance of the heart-shaped glasses symbol leads one to the age-old fetishization of schoolgirls, the Gothic Lolita fashion trend in Japan, and a Danish child pornography franchise that churned out films under the name “Lolita 1-36” from 1971-1979 (Vickers, 161). These perversions would exist regardless, but Lolita’s reputation in pop culture has given them a grim moniker. 

Eventually, the question emerges: why did they make a film of Lolita at all in the 1960s, under such restrictions by the M.P.P.A. and elsewhere? The most straightforward reason was capitalize on the hot-topic reputation of the book in America, a literary work falsely perceived as pornographic. According to Elizabeth Power, “Kubrick’s rejection of Nabokov’s screenplay and its rewrites also suggests his desire to distance his film from the novel and its potentially salacious content when he represented it on screen. His failure to adapt Lolita on film seems to be just that, his failure. As Kubrick conceded in a 1972 interview, ‘if it had been written by a lesser author, it might have been a better film’” (2). The story is certainly filmable, as Lyne later proves, but his faithful adaptation is emotionally shattering in a way that Kubrick does not even approach. Yet even though his attempt at adaptation can be pronounced a failure, the methods in which Kubrick chose to evade restrictions put upon his film – while injecting additional elements winking innuendo and humor – provide a picture of the ways in which a 1962 American audience could deal with sexual neurosis and allow a pedophile onto their screens, in the suave disguise of “a great big handsome hunk of movieland manhood” (Nabokov, 39). 



Works Cited

“How Do You Solve a Problem Like Lolita?” Biography. BBC. 13 Dec 2009. Television.

Landenson, Elisabeth. Dirt for Art’s Sake: Books on Trial from ‘Madame Bovary’ to ‘Lolita’.
Ithaca, New York: Cornell University Press, 2007. Print.

Leah LaBelle. “Lolita.” Lolita – Single. Epic Records, 2013. Music Video.
Dir. Diane Martel. YouTube. 8 May 2013.

Lewis, Jon. Hollywood v. Hard Core. New York, New York: New York University Press, 2000.
            Print.

Lolita (1962). Dir. Stanley Kubrick. Perf. James Mason, Shelley Winters, Sue Lyon.
Turner Home Entertainment, 1999. DVD.

Lolita (1997). Dir. Adrian Lyne. Perf. Jeremy Irons, Melanie Griffith, Dominique Swain.
Lions Gate, 1999. DVD.

Mulvey, Laura. “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema.” Screen: 16.3, Autumn 1975. London:
Society for Education in Film and Television. Print.

Nabokov, Vladimir. Lolita. 2nd edition. New York, New York: Vintage International, 1997. Print.

Power, Elizabeth. “The Cinematic Art of Nympholepsy: Movie Star Culture as Loser Culture in
Nabokov’s Lolita.” Criticism: Winter 1999, Vol. 41, No.1. Detroit, Michigan: Wayne
State University Press, 1999. Print.

Vickers, Graham. Chasing Lolita: How Popular Culture Corrupted Nabokov’s Little Girl All
Over Again. Chicago, Illinois: Chicago Review Press, 2008. Print. 

Nov 11, 2013

I blew Richard Speck!


Hokey opener of all hokey openers: Harris Glenn Milstead, a chubby boy from Baltimore, just wanted to be a star. The more tonally accurate opener -- a line that Dawn Davenport screams into the audience of her stage show in Female Trouble (1974) -- I have used as the title of this article.

At the Logan Theater in downtown Chicago last night I stood in line with a crowd of middle-aged men in leather jackets and sparkling earrings, waiting to get into the new Jeffrey Schwarz documentary I Am Divine. This is Divine's first legitimate biographical treatment, and I had been excited for months to be able to go see it during its premiere run in Chicago. It was a tiny theater with classic movie posters lining the walls (some for kitschy horror films, which made me glow inside.) Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall smoldered from the doors of the men's and women's bathrooms. The popcorn maker was frothing over and people were bitching about having their bags checked with a handheld flashlight.


Reeling 31 is the second-oldest LGBTQ film festival in the country, and I felt proud to sink into its faux-satin seats and listen to this voluminous beauty bellow from the big screen. I swear, the prevalence of middle-aged men in the audience is not a prejudiced generalization -- looking back from my seat, I saw that they really did make up about 2/3 of the people there. The wonderful thing about this is that they had histories with Divine; they knew the counterculture midnight movie scene he and John Waters were coming from. Before the film started, the emcee asked who had "experienced The Divine" in person and hands shot up around the theater.

The film itself wasn't geared toward any specific audience, but definitely had a lot of choice nuggets for fans (of which I'm one, though with not nearly as much credibility as these older guys sitting next to me.) It was a heart-warming, soft-eyed look at Divine's life -- a life full of chaos, addiction, and debauchery but also a lot of pure human silliness and emotional trials. The anecdote that provoked one of the loudest laughs in the theater was about high-school Glenn doing his prom date's makeup. Not long after that, he went to a costume party dressed as Elizabeth Taylor. His date agreed that he outshone every girl at the party.


He did indeed want to be a star, to escape Baltimore and express himself in performance after a lifetime of being bullied and stifled in shame about his weight. After John Waters helped form his image and launch his film career, Divine took off (alienating his uncomprehending parents.) Much of his life was lived in self-destructive free-fall; he was like a camp Chris Farley in some ways, a fat performer who careened completely over the top and would do anything for a laugh. Case in point, his tiresome but still incredible claim to fame, is eating fresh dog shit on film in Pink Flamingos (1972). Wonderfully, even among the fans in this audience who knew exactly what was coming, that scene still provoked groaning, shifting in seats, intakes of breath... John Waters used to say that someone vomiting at one of his movies was like a standing ovation, and his work has clearly not lost its power to shock.

Part of the feel-good aspect of the movie is achieved by all the campy touches. There's a lot of pink glitter, basically. The closing image is an animation of Divine, wrapped in a white toga-style dress, winking out of sight as a harp-wielding angel in an exaggeratedly idyllic blue-sky stratosphere. So much of his performances are tinged with burlesque, grotesque, excess... but it would be impossible to tell his life story without comedy and flights of fancy.

It's undeniable that Divine was incredibly sexy, though I can't put my finger on how or why. Maybe it's a combination of the mellifluous, sensual, powerful, husky voice (with a great Baltimore accent -- "Connie Marble, you stand convicted of AAYS-hole-ism"), expressive blue eyes, and wild lack of inhibition with his huge body. He is such a bewitching performer to watch, you literally can't take your eyes off him and have no idea what he will do next. But reality intervened on the glorious spectacle -- Divine died young, from health problems that he was just starting to get a handle on (shortly after the filming of Hairspray in 1988). This was not before he reconnected with his parents, however. His sweet mother's interview segments were among the most touching moments in I Am Divine.


What is empowering about Divine the performer, the person? Why did I feel so much more vital and brave walking down the bleary neon-striped street after the show was over? I love a good freakshow just as much as the next person, but moreover, I identify with them. John Waters' Dreamland makeshift film studio of the 1970's was all about that: freak culture, bad taste, filth, deviant sexuality, hedonism, seedy glamour, TRASH. And Divine was undeniably the brightest star to come out of that grubby little enclave first formed in Baltimore.

There is something so beautiful and touching about Divine's life story, and my envious little heart goes out to anyone who can strut out into an unforgiving world with such raunchy style and splash. Watching it from a movie audience last night was pure vicarious, anarchic joy.