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In a quest to come up with a working
definition of “cult” movies as the
modern incarnation of cultural transmitters, I
found classifications that
insist the “cult” phenomena didn’t start until the
invention of home video,
while others placed the date in the mid-1960s. Some lists
included 1950s-era “overgrown radioactive mutant” B-movies, 1940s serial adventures, as
well as 1930s drug exploitation films. What made a film go beyond the
screen and
take on a life of its own?
I was versed in the Hughes lexicon, slinging
John Bender-isms into casual
dialogue like a pro. I used to watch David Lynch movies
while scribbling
notes on the symbolism. I am a font of horror-science-fiction trivia
that
holds no conversational currency outside a comic shop, but this definition
needed to involve more than incessant quotes or philosophical study or
obscure
trivia. I was looking for an event. Rituals were often patterned
after mythology,
offering a means for the members of a society to participate
in stories to create
cohesive bonds within a community.
Looking back, my interest in “movie
cults” probably began in a friend’s
basement circa seventh grade with the discovery
of an artifact that
transported us into another dimension. It was a vinyl pressing
of the Rocky
Horror Picture Show Soundtrack, complete with a “time warp” dance
mat.
Putting my hands on my hips and pulling my knees in tight, I knew I was on
to something.
Perhaps the pelvic thrust held the key to
understanding.
Rocky Horror is a
musical-sing-along-tribute-parody-of-the-science-fiction-horror-drive-in-cinema using the
cliché genre motif of a haunted castle, a stranded car, and a cast of eccentric
characters. Since 1976 it has generated (or degenerated) into a fully interactive
experience.
By high school, the album primed me for my first time
including costume,
“virginity” ritual, audience partici-(SAY IT)-pation and live
action rendition. Far more devoted fan(atic)s can offer details on this practice with
more expertise at the official web site rockyhorror.com.
My adventure,
however, didn’t end there.
It was 2 in the morning, and my friends and I
were being chased in high heels
and fishnet stockings (which made my thighs look fat)
by two carloads of
drunk frat boys across a parking lot. It seemed like only moments
earlier we
were toasting with toast—everything was fine—and then we were running for
our lives, dodging tossed bottles, our makeup getting smeared. There
were four
of us and twelve of them—nowhere on the audience participation
album did it include a
warning about this!
Then we turned the corner and made it to our
destination, an after-hours
party for the Rocky Horror cast. Spilling out
onto the front lawn were an
assemblage of vampires, ghouls, tramps, and fiends by the
dozens. The
screaming shouts of aggression turned into retreat as the rear car of
pursuant frat boys’ slammed into the lead car. We were welcomed into a
community
of costumed creatures, having lived it rather than dreamed it.
