I was ten years old when I first saw “The Rocky Horror Picture Show” at home. Those were the days of VHS, and I didn’t have access to the commercial version sold in stores. I instead watched a grainy copy my parents had taped off of cable TV some years before I was born. I pestered them for months, and they finally consented. But even then, they were convinced that I was too young. Before giving me permission, they would refer to it in whispers as “that kind of movie.” I would overhear them, and that only made me want to see it even more. Being so young, I had no real idea as to the nature of the plot or the characters; mostly, I was interested in the music, which I had heard sporadically in years past and had came to love. This was, I now believe, a natural reaction to growing up with musical films like “Little Shop of Horrors” and “Labyrinth” as well as with MTV – back in the days when they actually aired music videos.
 
After playing it for the umpteenth time, my parents finally realized that my watching “Rocky Horror” did not lead to any unpleasant consequences. It was a movie I liked, plain and simple. They let go of their concerns and, in effect, allowed me to give myself over to absolute pleasure. Years later, they even went with me to the twenty-fifth anniversary convention in Las Vegas. It was there that I finally “lost my virginity” at the Hard Rock Hotel’s midnight screening. I was seventeen – just the right age. I had heard a lot about audience participation, but nothing could have prepared me for actually being a part of it. It’s an experience I haven’t forgotten, and probably never will forget.
 
Since the fateful night I first viewed it on my VCR, I’ve learned to appreciate “Rocky Horror” for reasons other than its music. To be blunt, I appreciate it for its badness. The tacky production, the amateurish screenplay, and the bizarre characters and plot reek of old time B-movie filmmaking, the kind in which imagination was boundless but skill was limited. If we catch a glaring technical mistake – and inevitably, we do – we may find ourselves welcoming it, for it only adds to the film’s campy charm. So too does the plot, which is all at once a silly send up of science fiction and horror films, a free-spirited celebration of sexuality, and (my favorite) a rollicking musical comedy. If director Jim Sharman’s intention was do a straightforward adaptation of the original 1973 musical play, perhaps it was fortunate that he didn’t quite succeed. Creating camp can only take you so far; audiences have to do the rest.

And that’s exactly what they did. After a disastrous 1975 release in mainstream markets, “Rocky Horror” was rereleased as a midnight movie in April of 1976, rapidly generating a fan base that spread from city to city, and eventually, from country to country. It was shown every Friday and/or Saturday night, and it became commonplace to return week after week. Audiences would dress as their favorite character. They would participate by shouting vulgar lines back at the screen. They would sing along with the cast. They would bring props like water pistols, newspapers, lighters, noisemakers, and confetti. A select group of people would stand in front of the theater and act out the entire film as it played. It didn’t take long for “Rocky Horror” to transcend its status as a mere movie; it had become a full blown experience.
 
And so it has remained for the past thirty-five years. Theaters all over the world continue to screen it every weekend at midnight. Audiences continue to dress up, shout at the screen, bring props, and sing along. And it continues to attract “virgins,” which, if you’re not familiar with “Rocky Horror” speak, translates as someone who hasn’t seen the film in a theater. As of 2010, it has earned nearly $140 million.
 
The plot could not be any stranger. Brad Majors and Janet Weiss (Barry Bostwick and Susan Sarandon), a newly engaged conservative middle-American couple, get stranded in the middle of nowhere when their car blows a tire. After wandering for a few miles in the pouring rain, they find themselves at the castle of Dr. Frank N. Furter (Tim Curry), a transvestite mad scientist from the planet Transsexual (located, we’re told, in the galaxy of Transylvania). On that particular night, he’s ready to unveil his newest creation: A blonde-haired, muscle bound Frankenstein creature named Rocky (Peter Hinwood). As Brad and Janet stay for the night, they find themselves at the mercy of the castle’s weird inhabitants, including a tap dancing groupie named Columbia (Little Nell) and the incestuous brother/sister duo of Magenta (Patricia Quinn) and Riff Raff (Richard O’Brien, who composed and scripted the original stage production). They also act upon deep-seeded sexual desires, aided in no small part by Frank’s insatiable appetite for physical pleasure.
 
All this is in the spirit of fun. But what about the soundtrack, an infectious compilation of rock ‘n’ roll tunes? Add that to the mix, and you have nothing short of a cult classic. I delight in the showstopping refrains of “Sweet Transvestite,” in which Tim Curry bravely struts his stuff in a corset, a garter belt, and spiked heels. I grin at the sappy indulgence of “Dammit Janet,” Barry Bostwick deftly capturing the innocent schoolboy routine. And I’m still compelled to stand up and follow along with the steps of “The Time Warp,” quite possibly one of the greatest songs ever written for the stage and screen. Ask any midnight attendee – they’re likely to feel the same way. “The Rocky Horror Picture Show” proves that believable performances, compelling stories, breathtaking cinematography, and realistic dialogue aren’t always the hallmarks of cinematic greatness. Sometimes, it’s defined by how low a filmmaker is willing to set his standards.

- Chris Pandolfi

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