The other is a little Cheshire cat grin that spreads across his face, slowly, like an ooze, usually when he is about to say something perversely funny. One is a polite “thanks for coming to my home” smile, which I saw when he ushered me in. He took a seat in an armchair and immediately started grinning. When he opened the door, he waved me into his opulent salon, which was awash in red brocade curtains, tchotchkes, precious ephemera, and several tables covered with giant coffee table books. His signature adorns the bottom as if it were a legal document and not the equivalent of a Post-it. Waters’ house is nondescript, but he does have a small sign taped to a desk in front of his door, “authorizing” any deliveries to be left outside. His latest offering is a debut work of fiction that again thrills in the most wretched way: Liarmouth is a novel about a liar who can’t stop lying.
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Know-It-All - he knows exactly how to make you laugh while gagging. (For years, my friends and I scoured the early internet hoping to find a clip of it, hoping it was real and not some urban legend, and we were utterly delighted when we found out: It was real, and it was spectacular.) As a writer - he wrote about hitchhiking across the country in 2014’s Carsick and about how to become and be famous in his 2019 memoir, Mr.
As a director, he’s always had an eye for pleasing sleaze, like drag queen Divine eating a handful of dog shit with glee.
For 50 years, Waters has been our self-appointed “filth elder,” guiding us into the perverse with cult classic movies like 1972’s Pink Flamingos, 1981’s Polyester, 1988’s Hairspray, and 1990’s Cry-Baby. Having just turned 76, he’s still riotously funny and quick - and also truly disgusting. So here’s some good news: John Waters is exactly who you want him to be. Freaks like us get to be the good guys, finally. That’s the whole thing about a Waters production if you feel like no one sees you, or if you feel like you stick out too much, his movies are a salve.
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I had no idea what was going on in that movie - why was Johnny Depp collecting his tears in a jar? - but it stirred something deep in my soul. Cable channels played Cry-Baby on a steady loop at 2 a.m. I first heard of John Waters around 2003, when I was in junior high. What if he was surly? Or what if he was boring? Most famous people don’t live up to our heady expectations, and if Waters was a little more tempered in person than his freak charmant public persona, no one could blame him. Waters couldn’t have known, but while on the Acela to Baltimore, where he has lived his entire life and where many of his movies are set, I was worried I’d have exactly that kind of moment with him. “I still love Little Richard, but there’s a thing where people say never meet your idols. He didn’t have the mustache, he wore conservative suits, said anti-gay stuff,” Waters said. Little Richard wasn’t the campy, sprightly figure Waters was hoping he would be. But the conversation was a bit of a bust.
“He had just put out an autobiography where he talked about being a drag queen, he mailed people bowel movements - he was right up my alley!” Waters told me. In 1987, Playboy commissioned John Waters to interview his idol, Little Richard.