Pink Flamingos- 1972
"What's the worst thing that can happen to me when I eat dog shit?" Divine asked us, while we were sitting around the set waiting for John Waters, who was doing some exterior shots. Van Smith, the makeup man, was painting Divine's face. David Lochary was arranging his blue hair and drinking coffee; Mink was putting her contact lenses in; Bonnie was reading the Baltimore Sun paper; I was trying to remember my lines.
There was no question that Divine would eat the dog shit; he was a professional. It was in his script, so he was going to do it.
"We'll find out what'll happen," I said.
It was a secret. Only a few people involved with Pink Flamingoes knew about the shit-eating grin scene at the end of the film. John wanted to keep it quiet; maybe he was afraid some other filmmaker might beat him to it, steal the shit-pioneer award. Anyway too much word of mouth, now, would deplete the surprise for the film-goer later.
"We'll talk to a doctor," Van said, pausing mid-stroke with the liquid eye-liner brush.
"I'll do it if it doesn't kill me," Divine said and laughed.
"Pretend it's chocolate," Bonnie suggested.
In the world there are many brave people: those who climb Mt. Everest, those who work in Kentucky coal mines, those who go into space as astronauts, those who dive for pearls. Few are as brave as actors who work with John Waters. We didn't think he was asking too much.
We didn't think he was crazy, just obsessed.
"Call a doctor right now," Mink said.
"Call a hospital. Call Johns Hopkins!" I said and handed him the phone.
"Why belabor the situation? Why worry? Get it over with," said David.
"Dial the phone," said Mink.
"Call pediatrics. Tell them your son just ate dog shit. See what they say," Van suggested.
Divine started dialing the hospital and reached a doctor.
"My son just accidentally ate some dog feces," Divine said, "What's going to happen to him?"
"What's he saying?" Bonnie asked.
"Shh..." he said to Bonnie." And then what?" Divine asked in the phone, "Hmmhu, hmmhu, OK then. Thank you." He hung up.
"So?" asked David.
"He didn't sound too alarmed," Divine said, "I guess it's just a routine question for a doctor. He said all I have to be careful about is the white worm."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Mink asked.
"Tape worms," Divine said, "That doesn't sound too dangerous."
"You don't have to swallow it anyway," Van said.
"He said to check out the dog. Take it to a vet," Divine said.
"John is doing that," I said.
"What kind of dog is it?" Mink asked.
"A miniature poodle," said Divine.
It was suggested to John to do the take in two shots. First the dog does his duty, then cut. Replace the real shit with fake shit. Divine eats it. Cut. But John knew, we all knew, that audiences wouldn't fall for that.
"No. NO. Everybody would know we replaced the real shit for fake. Divine's gotta scoop it right up still warm off the street," John had said a few days ago.
This was show biz. Divine didn't balk and he wasn't the only one. Mink Stole was going to do a big scene that called for her red hair to catch on fire. The dialogue would be: "Liar. Liar. Your hair's on fire." She didn't seem afraid at all.
"I'll do it. There'll be fire extinguishers there."
"You could use a wig," I said.
"Somebody already suggested that to John. No. Audiences want truth," Mink said.
The day John was about to shoot the hair-on-fire scene, he changed his mind; he decided it would be too dangerous after all. They tested a piece of Mink's hair and it just smoked and sizzled and smelled awful. There'd be no dramatic effect; it wouldn't have burst into flames. John was a little disappointed, but he'd think of something else. Mostly when John came up with these kinds of ideas for his actors, he was testing us or half joking; the actors were the ones who took him seriously; we were the hams. Actors know scenes like these make stars.
"Aren't you supposed to do some scene where you get fucked by a chicken?" Divine asked me.
"Fucked by a real chicken?" Mink asked.
"How?" asked Bonnie.
"In the script it says Cracker cuts off the head of a chicken and he fucks me with the stump," I said.
"Oh, that sounds easy," Divine said.
"Yeah, that's easy compared to what you have to do," I said to Divine.
"Chickens scratch pretty bad," David said, "Even without their heads."
"Bird wounds can be dangerous," Van said.
I thought about Hitchcock's THE BIRDS, but those were seagulls and I knew just how powerful seagulls could be. Compared to them, chickens were jellyfish. "I'm not worried about some little scratches," I said, "But I don't think I can watch while the head's being cut off."
"Oh come on. Chickens don't know they're dying. They're not smart enough," David said.
There was a couple other scenes in the film that we talked about.
"The whole trailer has to burn to the ground. That could get out of hand, couldn't it?" I asked.
"John's going to have a fire truck there," Van said.
"Doesn't Linda Olgeirson have to be artificially inseminated on camera? Down in the pit?" Mink asked.
"She'll have a stand-in," Bonnie said. "It's a close-up beaver shot. Nobody will know it's not her. She doesn't want to expose her pussy for the audience. I wouldn't do that either," I said.
"No, I wouldn't either," said Mink. We would all eat shit, catch on fire, fuck chickens, but wouldn't do close-up crotch shots. There has to be a line drawn somewhere.
"I have to show my dick," David said.
"But you're going to have a turkey neck tied on it," Mink said, "That doesn't count."
"Elizabeth is going to expose her tits and her dick, David. So what are you complaining about?" Divine said and we all agreed.
http://www.angelfire.com/md/cookiemueller/pinkflamingos1972.html
