There are only so many places a dude can go on a Saturday night dressed in fishnets, a corset and black lipstick and still be considered the coolest guy in the room.
But lo and behold, amidst the bars and clubs that normally comprise the night life scene, an enclave of delinquents, derelicts, and drag queens can be found tucked away in Harvard Square. By day, it is nothing more than an innocent little movie house. But by night, Sony Loews Theater comes alive with the cult ceremony of "The Rocky Horror Picture Show."
For a hardcore "Rocky Horror" enthusiast, the weekly showings performed by the talented Full Body Cast are probably entertaining, if not new. But for the unsuspecting "virgins" in the audience, the "Rocky Horror" experience will be one of the most profoundly disturbing and exhilarating events of their college lives.
The evening begins at midnight, with a crowd of jittery "Picture Show" devotees huddled together in the theater's vestibule like a team of athletes anxiously awaiting the big game. Here, virgins stick out like a sore thumb in jeans and sweatshirts, while leather-clad enthusiasts mill about clutching "Bags of Shit" containing the "Rocky Horror" essentials: toast, a newspaper, rice, playing cards, etc., all of which will be used during the performance.
Then, like the grizzled veteran coach, Head Techie Tracy emerges from the shadows to give a no-nonsense pep talk that prohibits glass bottles, laser pointers, and having sex in the theater anywhere but in the designated "Sex Row."
Welcome to "Rocky Horror."
What ensues is an elaborate pre-show ritual orchestrated by the members of the Full Body Cast. Yeah, that's right; when you drop nine bucks for "Rocky Horror," you get more than a movie. Much more. Throughout the evening, cast members berate, engage, and fondle the audience and each other through a complex web of "Rocky Horror" etiquette.
First order of business is the sacrifice of a "Rocky Horror" virgin, wherein members of the cast unabashedly select the newcomer female with the biggest breasts and summarily pop her proverbial cherry, though a red balloon squeezed between the legs is mercifully substituted for the real thing.
Then comes the lap dance contest, which is basically an excuse for a "Rocky Horror" old-timer to have scores of scantily clad young women - and men - shake their booties in his face for the right to be recognized as the sluttiest dancer in the room and the chance to perform with the cast during the show.
And, finally, the movie actually starts.
The writers of 1975's "The Rocky Horror Picture Show" could not have envisioned that, thirty years later, their poorly made, soft-porn-style film would have earned the status of cult icon and spawned a series of ceremonial rituals more extravagant than those used to elect the new pope. Yet here it is nonetheless, exposing a whole new generation of fans to the plotless, overtly raunchy spectacle that is "The Rocky Horror Picture Show."
The film is a shameless mockery of the archetypical horror film, wherein unsuspecting country bumpkin newlyweds Brad (Barry Bostwick) and Janet (a pre-Oscar winner Susan Sarandon) get lost in the woods one dark, stormy night, seeking refuge in a spooky old castle atop a deserted hill. All semblance of coherent reality ends there, as upon entering the mansion, Brad and Janet find not the expected axe murderer or eccentric millionaire, but a tribe of Transylvanian Transvestites summoned by their leader, Dr. Frank-N-Furter (a much younger, thinner Tim Curry).
Frank has called his fellow transvestites to celebrate the unveiling of his newest creation, a Mr. Universe-esque Frankenstein assemblage named Rocky Horror (Peter Hinwood). Apparently, Frank has created Rocky to be a living, breathing sex toy, but Rocky rejects his advances and instead engages in a series of lewd acts with Brad, Janet, and just about every other cast member.
The rest of the film is muddled beyond comprehension, as the movie itself is lost in a deluge of tasteless, tactless, but oddly appealing erotica. The chivalrous Brad is soon perverted. Janet's purity is corrupted. Aliens make an appearance, and Tim Curry wears an obscene amount of makeup.
Of course, what really adds to the festive atmosphere is the audience participation. The Full Body Cast reenacts, on a makeshift stage, all of the action happening onscreen, while the crowd engages in an elaborate call-and-response interaction with the film. When Brad enters a scene, they scream "asshole;" when Janet skips in, "slut." They throw rice at the wedding, and chuck their burnt bread when Frank makes a "toast" during the dinner scene. And then there's the Time Warp: when the transvestites start boogying to party music in the film, the whole audience floods into the aisles, forms a conga line, and dry humps the person in front of them.
When the whole thing is finally over, virgins will come to the ultimate conclusion that they either adore or abhor the "Rocky Horror" experience; there is no in-between. But whatever their decision, no one will regret having done the Time Warp at least once in their lives, and only a true square would not agree that everybody should do the same.
