The Hot Spot Rating
Polyester (1981)
Starring: Divine, Tab Hunter, Mink Stole, Edith Massey
Director: John Waters
Synopsis: Watch Divine’s suburbian utopia in awe inspiring Odor-Rama
Reviewed by: Omar Khan
“who can resist” Time Out
“wacky middle class satire… hilariously hidious” Maltin’s
“high spirited but weirdly amusing” Blockbuster Video
“One of Waters’ funniest and most accessible films.” — Time Out Film Guide
“Divine gives one of her very best performances.” — Empire Magazine
“A wickedly funny satire of suburban America.” — The New York Times (Vincent Canby)
“John Waters tempers his bad taste with genuine affection.” — Chicago Reader (Jonathan Rosenbaum)
“A gleefully tasteless suburban melodrama.” — AllMovie (Mark Deming)
“One of Waters’ most accomplished films.” — Slant Magazine
“Polyester is simultaneously outrageous and oddly touching.” — The A.V. Club
“The Odorama gimmick is inspired comic nonsense.” — The Guardian
“Waters skewers middle-class respectability with infectious glee.” — The Washington Post
“Divine has never been more sympathetic.” — TV Guide
More gleeful, nonsensical brilliance from the “Prince of Puke”, this time presented in glorious Odorama—John Waters’ wonderfully tacky scratch-and-sniff gimmick in which audience members were handed scented cards and instructed to scratch the corresponding number whenever it flashed on the screen.
Some of the aromas are quite delightful—freshly cut roses among them—but others… well, suffice it to say, be prepared.
The plot follows suburban housewife Francine Fishpaw, a sort of plus-sized Elizabeth Taylor lookalike whose life is collapsing around her. Her expanding waistline is the least of her worries. She has a go-go dancing daughter of questionable intelligence, a glue-sniffing juvenile delinquent for a son, and a husband who owns a porn cinema and is loathed throughout the neighbourhood because of it.
Her only real comfort comes from her best friend Cuddles, an ageing former toilet cleaner turned society debutante at the tender age of sixty-five, played magnificently by Edith Massey. As one disaster follows another, Francine’s carefully constructed suburban existence begins to unravel spectacularly until the bottle seems the only remaining refuge.
Polyester ranks among John Waters’ finest achievements. Divine is, as ever, magnificent in the central role, while the usual gallery of wonderfully degenerate supporting characters perform with tremendous gusto. The only disappointment is that the incomparable Mink Stole is rather underused. She has so often been one of the great scene-stealers in Waters’ films that one can’t help wishing she had been given considerably more to do.
Edith Massey is absolutely marvellous as Cuddles, delivering one of her warmest and funniest performances while displaying a confidence that had grown with every successive Waters film. Sadly, this would prove to be her final screen appearance.
One of the happiest and most unexpected moments of my life came courtesy of Edith. Having discovered the telephone number for Edith’s Shopping Bag in one of John Waters’ books, I decided—more in hope than expectation—to give it a call. I fully expected nobody to answer. Instead, the unmistakable voice of the Egg Lady herself came down the line.
Edith could not have been warmer, more affectionate or more charming. We chatted for five or six wonderful minutes about this and that, and she excitedly told me about Forever Flamingoes, which was due to begin shooting shortly. Every few sentences she would call me “Hon” in that utterly irresistible Baltimore accent. I was completely smitten, hopelessly star-struck and utterly enchanted—and, truth be told, I still am. Those few precious minutes remain among the happiest and most treasured memories of my life.
The soundtrack is another delight. Listen out for Debbie Harry’s deliciously trashy rendition of “Daddy, Daddy,” while Tab Hunter’s wonderfully cheesy title song, “This Is My Life, Francine,” perfectly captures the film’s gloriously kitsch spirit.
A genuine John Waters classic—and one of his very best.
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