Time-Warping over at
the Frankenstein Place
We were fortunate that we had ordered our tickets ahead of time. The line for the sold-out show wrapped around the corner, littering 21st Avenue with Transylvanians clad in fishnets, vinyl, and eyeliner galore. Capes, wigs, platform boots… it was a flamboyant crowd, to say the least. A lanky young man, clad in a bustier and a miniskirt, his long legs awkwardly wobbling in their high heels, piteously asked anyone if they had extra tickets for sale. And, honestly, nothing is more piteous than a chilly man clad in women’s underclothing on an October evening willing to dance a jig for a chance to see The Rocky Horror Picture Show at the Belcourt.
Another young lass, decked in her freakiest garb, came into view calling out for tickets. “Oh MY GOD!!!” she shrieked, as she saw the woman in front of me in line. “It’s my Kindergarten teacher!!!” She ran off in a flurry of shame which was rather funny; as the teacher herself pointed out, it was far more embarrassing for her to be caught there than her former student. The teacher was prepared for the evening to an extent that few of the young ones around her were—though her Transylvanian costume was mild, she had a bag containing everything from confetti to bells to newspaper. She was going to enter into the spirit of things with great aplomb and do this shit old-school.
It was 32 years ago that The Rocky Horror Picture Show debuted in all of its tacky, wacky glory. And it was about a year later that the infamous audience participation began at the midnight showings across the country. Despite knowing every word of every song and a bit of the “liturgy” that the audience is supposed to shout at the screen, I’ve never been to a live showing before, making me that most cherished of all things to the Rocky Horror buffs—a virgin. By all rights, my husband and I should have born the scarlet Vs proudly, but I was entirely too cowardly to advertise my inexperience that blatantly. The blush-inducing antics they put virgins through are legendary, not to mention terribly embarrassing.
Once we got settled into our seats inside (after a quick stop at the well-stocked Belcourt bar), it became clear that we needn’t have worried. The sheer number of virgins was so overwhelming that few were put through the rigorous embarrassments of yore. Back in the good old days, when the Rocky Horror fans held weekly court in the Franklin cinema, a first-timer could be sure of having their cherry popped in the most conspicuous way possible. But with this celebration of kitsch and decadence now a yearly event, a good half of the audience may have never done the Time Warp in public. Instead, they called all of us virgins to the front of the theatre, instructed us to repeat the Rocky pledge, and selected several from amongst our midst to have the balloon between their legs popped by the cast members.
The movie began, as did the audience participation. If you’re one of those sticklers for silent movie watching—the type who shushes people whispering in the aisle behind you—do everyone a favor and stay away from this event. You will not have a good time and might possibly be beaten to death with feather boas and high-heeled shoes if you try to shush somebody in the middle of “Sweet Transvestite.” The heckling was incessant and gloriously vulgar. There were the usual cries of “slut” every time Janet appeared on screen (which might have the distinction of being the least obscene thing yelled out that evening), and wickedly clever people were ad-libbing some pretty damn hilarious jokes whenever the fancy happened to strike. Everyone stood up to perform the Time Warp (which is, without question, the most ridiculous-looking dance known to man), and everyone gave the Narrator of the film an incredibly hard time about his fucking neck… or lack thereof. The cast went through the motions in front of the enormous screen; people pulled things out of their prop kits (which were on sale before the show for those of us who came ill-prepared) at the appropriate times; toast was thrown with great gusto.
It was over all too soon, though. I’ve never known the movie to go by so quickly. One moment, we were singing with sheets of newspaper over our heads; and the next, the teacher was throwing playing cards at the screen as Frank—with tears in his eyes and mascara streaming down his face—sang about going home. Nobody in the audience was anxious to do the same. Another year seemed a terribly long time to wait for the cathartic experience of screaming obscenities at a movie screen surrounded by a hundred other fabulous freaks. A little eyeliner and bawdy songs may not change the world; but they certainly give it a lovely rosy hue.
Originally published by the Nashville Edge, 2007-2008.
May 6, 2009 at 11:22 pm | writings | No comment