When I was 14, I was watching a play in my local theatre, perching on a very uncomfortable seat, when I heard a man shout at the performers. ‘Describe your balls!’ he yelled. Not quite the usual heckle. I became very aware of my mum in the seat next to me, but she didn’t seem to be shriveling into her chair like I thought she would be. In fact, she sat forward in anticipation.

The Narrator on stage carried on as usual, reading from his book. ‘Heavy, black, and pendulous.’ He fixed the heckler with a wink.

Really, I should have known what show I was signing up to watch when I encountered two women my mum’s age in lingerie and lab coats at the theatre door. This was the Rocky Horror Show: a cultural phenomenon that was a staple of my mum’s teenage years and has since become a symbol of my own. Annual living room watch parties of the film (The Rocky Horror Picture Show) are a must for us now, often accompanied by popcorn-fuelled conversations about Tim Curry’s attractiveness. Mother-daughter bonding.

Having been introduced to Rocky Horror at a too-young age, I soon found myself diving deeper into the campy side of film: always ridiculous, often downright shite. And I have loved every single film I have seen. So…I would like, if I may, to take you on a strange journey. A journey that will steer us towards some truly terrible films, and convince you to love them, or at least to watch them with an open mind.

THE ROCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW

The Rocky Horror Picture Show is a musical parody of 1960s horror B-movies, including aliens and extremely dubious bisexual escapades — so it is no surprise it has collected a very specific audience. Upon its initial release, Rocky Horror was extremely negatively received. Despite the star-studded cast, featuring Tim Curry and Meat Loaf, as well as the backing of 20th Century Fox and David Bowie, the film was an absolute flop. Critics hated it, calling it laboured and tasteless.

Rocky Horror’s legacy, today, is one of community. Like the man who wanted a description of The Narrator’s balls, audiences gave the ‘flop’ film a new lease of life by heckling it mercilessly. Characters are routinely called ‘arsehole’ and ‘slut’ every time they appear on screen; punchlines are added or skipped; audience members even bring their own props. During a scene where the main characters walk during a storm, audiences pull out newspapers to shield their heads, and some even bring water pistols to provide some rainy realism. And my personal favorite: 

Our main characters arrive at the castle door. Riff Raff, a henchman, stands expectantly as the hinges creak.

Audience: ‘What’s your favourite Lionel Ritchie song?’

Riff Raff: ‘Helllooooooo.’

In America, the legacy of the film has perhaps taken an extra step. Shadowcast showings of the film are regular if not overdone: drag show styled embellishments of the screening including bad lip-syncing, full dance numbers, and, in at least one case I’ve seen, a parody of the Bluey opening theme. Why? It couldn’t possibly matter. Facsimile Frank-N-Furters strut around in corsets and uncomfortable heels, lip-syncing to Tim Curry’s achingly English accent – chewing words around a lipstick-ornamented mouth as their minions tap dance. It is pure camp carnage.

Rocky Horror may have once been considered irredeemable, but since its release (50 years ago this year!), audiences and critics alike seem to have realised they must give themselves over to absolute pleasure. I wager the film is not even considered ‘so bad it’s good’ anymore. Perhaps the reason is that it never took itself too seriously in the first place. After all, Rocky Horror arose from writer Richard O’Brien parodying the actual ‘so bad they’re good’ horror B-movies of the 60s. So what happens when a film takes itself completely seriously? Does it affect how the audience responds?

THE ROOM

The Room is a 2003 film directed by, written by, produced by, lamented by, and starring Polish-American auteur Tommy Wiseau. Today, it is best known for its incessantly quotable lacklustre line deliveries (‘I did not hit her! I did not! Oh, hi Mark,’) and its do-it-yourself production style. The Room has no clear redeeming qualities. It is not helmed by talent like Tim Curry, it has no elaborate dance numbers, costumes, or science-fiction subplots. It never leans into anything, instead playing itself completely straight as a melodrama. It is utter rubbish, and it seems not to be aware of this fact. I love it. 

I am, of course, far from the only one who is infatuated with Wiseau. Since at least 2017, the Prince Charles Cinema in Leicester Square has shown exclusive screenings of The Room, with Tommy Wiseau himself in attendance at almost every one of them. The director seemed to intend the film to be an extremely serious endeavour at the time of production. Today, he seems not to mind that London audiences throw plastic spoons in the air, loudly urge the camera to focus when the visual goes blurry, stand in certain areas of the cinema to make eye contact with on-screen characters, and of course shout YOU’RE TEARING ME APART, LISA in unison with the Wiseau of 2003.

It seems not to matter how flashy, tongue in cheek, or theatrical a film is: the audience renders the flop film not only a comedic success, but a figure around which to orientate a community.

COMEDY AND COMMUNITY

Audience participation for other ‘so bad, they’re good’ films has almost become de rigueur. Repo: The Genetic Opera, a personal favourite camp film of mine and in many ways a spiritual successor to Rocky Horror, sees audiences bring glow sticks to wave around, sing along to songs, throw gold coins and tampons, and perform in the classic shadowcast manner.

The Graverobber describes Zydrate: ‘It’s the 21st century…’.

There is a beat.

An audience member shouts: ‘What’s your favourite goth band?’.

Graverobber: ‘…Cure.’

Critics called Repo ‘intentionally gross’ and ‘inert’, but audiences have made it something new. The phenomenon has even started to spread to Cats, and, earlier this year, to A Minecraft Movie. These films prove time and time again that there is something irresistible about treating a film as more than its original intention: taking it and making it into a comedic template. Even when a film takes itself as seriously as The Room seemed to, enjoyment comes from sharing glances with audience members; knowing you have something in common when you get up to dance to Mr Mistoffelees. Comedy plus levity equals community.

Perhaps this is why many cult classic films have such a storied link to the queer community. Mommie Dearest, Showgirls, Xanadu, even Twilight. These films are more commonly described as ‘camp’ now, despite their initial shredding upon release. Perhaps it’s just that the camp-ery of having media be ‘so bad, it’s good’ naturally attracts an audience who are beyond binaries? There is, after all, something scrappy about twisting a film past its original intent to be a symbol of community. Queer film has this undeniable thread of punkiness: other cult classics like Hedwig and The Angry Inch, Shortbus, and Pink Flamingos face this head on, and have developed devoted followings despite (or perhaps because of) the depicted depravity and filth.

Mr. Vader: Could you give us some of your political beliefs?

Divine: Kill everyone now! Condone first degree murder! Advocate cannibalism! Eat shit! Filth are my politics, filth is my life!

So what’s the one conclusion I can bring this number to? When you treat a film as a bonding experience with your community, come up with unique ways to interact with it, and lean into the terrible-ness of it all…it’ll be good to you. Watching bad films with a good audience is one of the greatest joys of life. And maybe, just maybe, in fifty years or so, the flop releases of today will gain a revitalised following. I look forward to the day when shadowcasts of Megalopolis are up and running. What I wouldn’t give to see a drag king lip-syncing to Adam Driver’s ‘go back to the clurrrrb’.