Director John Waters Teases ‘Hairspray’ : Cult Hero of ‘Flamingos’ Takes Plunge Into the Mainstream

The first movie that “Hairspray” director John Waters can remember seeing--at age 5--was “Cinderella.” He developed an instant crush, but not on the lovely princess.

“I worshiped her evil stepmother,” said Waters, his eyebrows wiggling with delight as he ate eggs and grits at a soul food cafe. “I remember getting the record from the movie and playing the stepmother’s entrance over and over and. . . .”

He laughed. “I think that was the first sign my parents had that something was definitely amiss.”

Amiss is putting it mildly. A lifelong Baltimore resident, Waters burst to prominence in 1972 with the release of “Pink Flamingos,” a bad-taste classic initially loathed by critics but so beloved by midnight moviegoers that it ran in Los Angeles for eight years.

Waters has been a cult hero ever since, making films of dubious taste, publishing two much-praised books, dabbling as an actor (the slippery used-car salesman in “Something Wild”), attending murder trials and teaching film to convicts.

Still, the 41-year-old director’s notoriety derives from his films. Waters has dubbed them “exploitation films for art houses.” They are certainly not for the squeamish. Most star Divine, a flamboyant 300-pound transvestite whom Waters discovered in high school.

“Female Trouble” spotlighted Divine in a dual role, as both a headline-seeking criminal named Dawn Davenport and her illicit welder-lover, Earl Peterson. Later came “Desperate Living,” a comic look at cannibalism and self-inflicted sex changes, which Waters billed “a lesbian melodrama about revolution.”

So it comes as a major surprise to find this auteur of outrage behind the wheel of “Hairspray,” a surprisingly sweet-tempered spoof about Tracy Turnblad, a chubby Baltimore teen who rockets to stardom as the new queen of an early-’60s TV dance show.

In addition to Divine (who plays Tracy’s mom and a nasty male TV station owner), the film features Palm Springs politico Sonny Bono, newcomer Ricki Lake (as Tracy), longtime Waters idol Pia Zadora and pop star Debbie Harry.

On a recent swing through Los Angeles, Waters exuberantly touted his film, assessed L.A. culinary trends (“Everywhere I go, all they serve is swordfish”) and boasted about his “lavish” $2.6-million budget (“We had cappuccino in the editing room, I didn’t have to pick up the cast in the morning and when it rained someone gave me a new poncho”).

However, he’s more than just a connoisseur of American junk culture--and “Hairspray” is more than just a nostalgic romp full of ratted hairdos and goofy dance hits. Its key subplot, which follows Tracy’s efforts to integrate the popular TV dance party, reveals Waters’ obsession with the incendiary politics of style.

A typical Waters touch: When Tracy is radicalized by her fight against the dance show’s all-white policy, she doesn’t join the Weathermen--she starts ironing her hair.

“When the straight-hair fashion first hit our neighborhood it caused a panic,” said Waters, who based much of the film on his own experiences watching--and occasionally appearing on--”The Buddy Deane Show,” a Baltimore TV dance party.

“Your whole life values changed. If you had ironed hair, you became a hippie. And if you kept your teased hair, you got married at 20 and had four kids.

“Hair was politics. Now, if you’re a skinhead, you could be a punk or a Nazi. Who knows? My mother says to me now, ‘Thank the Lord you’re not 16 today. You’d have a Mohawk!’ ”

No one’s lukewarm about John Waters. Beat era godfather William Burroughs calls him “the Pope of Trash.” Brat pack novelist Bret Easton Ellis says he’s “demented but endearing.” After seeing 1974’s “Female Trouble,” critic Rex Reed groaned: “Where do these people come from? Where do they go when the sun goes down? Isn’t there a law or something?”

Waters takes the praise and potshots in stride.

“I’ve usually gotten good reviews--even when they were bad,” he said. “Variety called ‘Pink Flamingos’ the ‘most vile, stupid film in history,’ which is the right kind of bad review.

“Rex Reed always hates my movies--witness that ‘where do they go when the sun goes down’ stuff.’ ”

Waters grinned. “I like to secretly believe that Rex knew that would help.”

Chain-smoking Kools and warning of the perils of ingesting vitamins, Waters is constantly offering sly aphorisms and quirky anecdotes--he’s a cross between Evelyn Waugh and Miss Manners. Asked to name one of his favorite vices, he coolly replied: “The things you mean, I never considered vices.”

Waters certainly doesn’t fit the part of film director at all -- where are the cuffed corduroy pants, the beige safari jacket?

With his razor-thin mustache, shiny black suit and wrap-around shades, he has the raffish charm of your favorite ninth-grade history teacher who was forced into early retirement after school officials discovered he secretly owned a string of massage parlors.

In fact, when Waters showed up for a tour of a Lynwood hair spray factory, its owner warily eyed him with the kind of stare normally reserved for a health inspector or a federal agent--it was clear that the owner thought his curious visitor was anything but a film director.

He wasn’t far off. Waters’ reputation for cinematic excess may enthrall the cognoscenti, but not many studio execs. “Hairspray” is Waters’ first film in nearly seven years, with several years lost in a failed attempt to make a sequel to “Pink Flamingos.”

“That’s the great thing about ‘Hairspray’--it’s one of my few obsessions that was at all palatable to any studio,” he said. “For a minute, it was actually going to be made at a major studio, until they screened ‘Pink Flamingos’ at 10 a.m. in a Beverly Hills screening room. . . .”

Waters mimicked a studio exec eyeing a nearby screen, his mouth open in shock. “ ‘Pink Flamingos’ is the movie that gets me in the door and then thrown out the door.”

No matter. For all their gross moments, Waters insists his films are simply about irony and surprise. “To me, irony is magic--it’s the best kind of humor,” he said. “My films are about people who take what society thinks is a disadvantage, exaggerating this supposed defect and turning it into a winning style.”

His public identity isn’t too far removed from this formula, especially the part about exaggeration. Skimming the papers that morning, he suddenly volunteered: “I always wanted my life to be torn from the headlines.”

During the recent U.S. Film Festival in Park City, Utah, Waters skipped a day of screenings and joined police and reporters who were manning a stakeout outside the explosives-laden farmhouse of excommunicated Mormon terrorist Addam Swapp.

“The drama was incredible--certainly better than anything they were showing at the festival that day,” Waters said.

The crime-scene field trip wasn’t just an exercise in camp for Waters. After seeing his films, with their garish characters and grotesque images, you realize that he’s a shrewd satirist whose fascination with crime and courtroom trials underscores his fondness for the way life often masquerades as theater.

“I’m not so much fascinated by crime as by the fact that when you do something horrible, you can’t change it,” he said. “I think it’s a matter of things being forbidden. That’s part of the glory of being raised a Catholic. It makes you more theatrical, and the sex is always better ‘cause it’s dirty.”

Waters sees his more-recent obsessions with courtroom drama--and his moonlighting gigs as a prison lecturer--as an outgrowth of his secret attraction to the forbidden.

“I just love visiting jails--it’s so relaxing! And the people you see are so very strange. Diane Arbus would crawl out of her grave to catch some of the family scenes I’ve watched in the waiting rooms.”

Waters is a wonderful comic--but ask him about his private life and he’s purposefully vague. You almost wonder how much of his image is a carefully constructed facade--with all the razzle-dazzle shrewdly designed to distract prying eyes.

“That’s why it works for me, living in Baltimore,” he said. “There’s where my real life is. I like L.A. But here I’m the public John Waters. And if you get caught up in that, it’s all over.”

“The National Enquirer is the ultimate barometer of fame in America,” Waters said, driving to the Lynwood hair spray factory. “I’d love to be in the Enquirer, but I’m not famous enough. My publicity firm won’t even pitch me to them.”

(Waters almost made it last month. Meeting a group of friends for dinner, Waters arrived waving the latest issue of the tabloid: “I’ve finally arrived! I’m in the Enquirer!”

(The paper had a big photo spread of TV bad boy Bruce Willis and his new spouse, Demi Moore. Waters pointed to a photo of the couple ducking out of a restaurant. If you looked closely, you could spot a paperback book in Moore’s hand--Waters’ “Crackpot.”)

Most of Waters’ heroes shared his fondness for gaudy, Enquirer-style events. One longtime idol was old-time movie huckster William Castle, a low-budget impresario who once came to a premiere in a hearse, signaling his arrival by popping out of a coffin.

Waters has always been enchanted with show business. At age 7, he was staging puppet shows. By 13, he was a regular Variety reader. By the end of high school he was in a full-fledged “beatnik” phase.

“Which was a tough act to pull off in suburban Baltimore,” he said. “My parents didn’t know what to do--they’d drop me off at this beatnik bar and hope I’d meet some nice people. My mother would take one look and say--’Is this camp or just the slums?’ ”

As Waters reached for another cigarette, he suddenly realized it was time for another interview--another performance.

What keeps him going?

“Frankly, I don’t know what else I’d do,” he said with a shrug. “The only time that’s dangerous for me is when I’m bored. So I’ve created this world for myself where I’m never bored.”