In all of cinema’s short history, has there ever been another joke as filthy, funny, perverse – and of course, well-earned – as the canonization of John Waters? At this exact moment, you can go out and spend forty hard-earned dollars on a “culturally important” boutique Blu-ray of a film which concludes on a cross-dresser eating literal, actual dog turds. If there's a more beautiful representation of the lurking good taste which occasionally threatens to puncture the bubble of our stolid society, I've yet to see it. But then again, Pink Flamingos was never about good taste.
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