Pecker: Movie, Review

(Originally published 1998)

The very title of John Waters’ latest comedy offers the critic a wealth of unusual possibilities, somewhere in which is a line that must not be crossed. Still, there is that provocative title, that nagging word, and the sound of that word, that tends to cause an immediate, uncomfortable stir whenever spoken, however sheepishly, in mixed company.

Indeed, to the uninitiated, the uninformed, saying: “I saw John Waters’ ‘Pecker’ last night and I couldn’t stop laughing” appears to be in extremely bad taste, a line not merely crossed, but leaped over while ringing bells, waving flags and blowing whistles.
C’est la vie.

“Pecker” is a campy, comic delight.

In the film, Edward Furlong is Pecker, a young photographer who allegedly earned his peculiar nickname because, as a child, he pecked at his food. (Sure. And the popular strip club Hooters got its name because the place is frequented by owls.)

Pecker takes photos of everything, and since this is a John Waters’ film, everything means the bizarre: Two rats having sex in a trash can, the private parts of butch lesbian strippers, a talking statue of the Virgin Mary, and even his younger, sugar-addicted sister, Little Crissy (Laren Huilsey), who is so strung out on candy, she easily could be the poster child for Ritalin.

As Pecker sees it, art is everywhere and he gleefully snaps photos of his girlfriend Shelley (Christina Ricci), his kleptomaniacal best friend Matt (Brendan Sexton III), and deep inside The Fudge Palace, the local gay bar where his sister Tina (Martha Plimpton) works as a strict, take-no-prisoners emcee.

Eventually, of course, Pecker’s life changes as only John Waters could change it for him: A New York art dealer (Lili Taylor) happens upon Pecker’s photos, loves his work, and immediately signs him to a show at her Manhattan gallery. It’s an official stamp of approval that brands Pecker as a major new artist--but at what cost? As all of the New York art world begins clamoring for Pecker, Waters introduces his film’s true purpose: To skewer modern art and its patrons while also highlighting how fame and fortune can corrupt.

Aesthetic pretension has long been an easy target, but in Waters’ capable hands, it makes for a film that is often very funny. Indeed, “Pecker” finds its director exactly where he belongs--deep inside the toilet bowl of life he continues to plunge from Baltimore. His latest may not be as outrageous as “Pink Flamingos” or “Polyester,” but it does take risks that push it far and away from the mainstream arena he courted somewhat unsuccessfully in “Serial Mom.”

For Waters, “Pecker” is divine.

Grade: A-