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Cecil B. Demented

A cult film about a filmmaking cult.

John Waters’s Cecil B. Demented is a rough but exuberant ode to movies with more passion than funding, to the cheap, the sleazy, the dangerous, the weird, and—above all—the profoundly unmarketable.

But fledgling director Cecil B. Demented (Stephen Dorff) has found a way for his guerrilla filmmaking to grab eyeballs, even if out-and-out cash would sully it. With the help of his fanatically devoted cast and crew, the Sprocket Holes, he’s going to kidnap bored, tetchy A-lister Honey Whitlock (Melanie Griffith) and force her to star in his next movie … at gunpoint, if necessary.

As always, Waters loves his bad taste. Who else would be rude enough to make a darkly comedic riff on Patty Hearst’s kidnapping and likable enough to talk Hearst herself into appearing in a supporting role, effectively granting her blessing to the DayGlo punk proceedings?

Hearst’s real-life ordeal was brutal, devastating, and complicated; Honey’s is hilarious and, despite all its slapstick violence and bloodshed, generous towards its “Demented for Life” filmmaking cult. After all, John Waters would probably join it … and I’d be tempted too. (Though I have to say, these kids all have tattoos of their favorite directors’ names, and I know every single one of them. I hate to break it to you, Cecil, but you might be a bit more mainstream than you think.)

We’re not surprised, then, that Honey is inducted into their ways without too much fuss. Sure, they abduct her, slobber all over her (chastely, but still), and even trick her into some light homicide, but they know when she’s doing good work and when she isn’t. We suspect it’s been a while since Hollywood has paid that much attention. Honey and Cecil end up forming a genuine, if profoundly fucked-up, director-lead collaboration, and the chemistry between Griffith and Dorff make us feel like it’s something more than mere Stockholm Syndrome. Honey’s been coasting through life, and she’s forgotten what loving her art feels like. Now she’s remembering, and she doesn’t mind shrugging off the accompanying body count.

Cecil B. Demented has plenty of flaws. Even at only 88 minutes, it’s a little baggy, and one key sequence—where Cecil and the Sprocket Holes seek sanctuary in a movie theater with a congenial audience—is effectively done twice, once with action fans unleashing kung fu on their behalf and once, in a porn theater, with more open mouths and full-on erections. It’s as if Waters couldn’t decide which version he liked best. But since I can’t either, it’s hard to bear much of a grudge. I suspect this is a case where being able to get on the movie’s goofy, violent, amoral wavelength—where there’s something perversely heartwarming about outsiders forming a family even if they really, really shouldn’t—makes you forgive any number of sins.

Because really, there’s a lot to enjoy here. The supporting cast is ridiculously stacked, even down to Larry Gilliard Jr., Maggie Gyllenhaal, Michael Shannon—and who knew I could ever like Adrian Grenier in anything? Not me, but here he plays an amiable leading man addicted to everything under the sun, huffing glue in one scene, asking for poppers in the next, and dammit, he’s charming and funny! Gyllenhaal plays an affectionate Satanist who quaffs goat urine, just to throw in another bit of character detail.

The costuming, overseen by Linda M. Boyland, is superb—colorful, creative, and revealing of character. The same is true of the sets, especially in the Sprocket Holes’ hideout (Vincent Peranio handled production design). A lot of love, energy, and talent went into this movie, even if no one involved was willing to kill for it. (Admittedly, I haven’t fact-checked that last part.)

And, of course, it’s funny, with an appealing densityof jokes and gags. There’s the Hollywood satire—I got a pretty big laugh out of the theatrical marquee for Patch Adams: The Director’s Cut. There’s the physical comedy, like a crowd frantically shoveling down oysters to comply with a Cecil’s instructions for his endangered “extras.” There’s the sheer line-crossing wrongness of Cherish (Alicia Witt) tumultuously recounting the “recovered memories” no one else believes: “My father sat on my face as he opened his Christmas presents!” There’s the sheer recognition of the way Cecil’s edgy bad boy (and, you know, cult leader) charisma temporarily heads for the hills when, horror of horrors, his tame, middle-class parents show up. Mom. Dad. You’re embarrassing him.

Cecil B. Demented is, appropriately, demented. It rarely aspires to be anything more than sheer energetic fun for film-loving weirdos, and maybe it would be better if it did. Then again, there may be more actual masterpieces in the world than there are gleeful goofs made with this little taste and this much talent. On balance, to paraphrase Community, let’s let Cecil B. Demented sing its awkward song.

Cecil B. Demented is streaming on Tubi, Prime, Pluto, and the Criterion Channel.