Let’s do the time warp again.
We’re coming up on the 40th anniversary of one of the world’s most well-known cult films, The Rocky Horror Picture Show. To celebrate, MAC has released a celebratory line of cosmetics so you can facially embody, with perfect screen accuracy, your favorite character from the film.
It’s actually kind of amazing no major makeup company has done this before. Rocky Horror fans cosplayed characters before the word “cosplay” was coined. Everyone into Rocky is someone from Rocky. Fans recreate their spirit-characters with an almost religious devotion (“cult film” is not just a clever name.) It’s almost as if, in reincarnating these characters, the fans reify something essential in themselves.
Me, I’ve always been Columbia. When I open my heart and allow a furtive peek into the innermost mansions of my ribcage’s interior castle, there is Columbia, flashing nip and engaging in rough, exhibitionistic grinding with bad-news biker, Eddie. Columbia is the impetuous bisexual slut in a suit of ten thousand sparkles tap-dancing along my nadis, spinning in shimmering, spastic vortexes and falling over gracelessly in each chakra. If I were standing at the liminal boundary between two mystic worlds, and in order to pass through the threshold I had to gaze into a magic mirror and confront my True Self, I would see, in that looking glass, a cloudy reflection of Columbia in torn flannel pajamas and Mickey Mouse ears, pining for a brilliant, beautiful narcissist as she barters for status with whatever charm and talent she can collect from the piecemeal hipster juggernaut of her high-pitched topple through spacetime.
It’s astounding. Time is fleeting.
I saw Rocky Horror for the first time when I was fourteen at a midnight show on Halloween in a smoke-filled film-works bar (it used to be legal to smoke in bars, kids – I’m old) in downtown Indianapolis. I went with my cool friend Katie, who’s mom, who looked, in retrospect, exactly like Stevie Nicks, took us during an autumn sleepover. The two of us gawky, breast-less eighth-graders dressed (impeccably) like Gene Simmons and Ace Frehley from KISS. No one asked our age or our gender.
Katie’s mom had coached us on the audience participation aspect of the experience, and even gave us playing cards and rolls of toilet paper to throw at the appropriate times. After the shadowcast sacrificed all of the virgins (Katie’s mom, thankfully, did not turn us in), the film began. Below the crimson, disembodied lips on screen, a slender, older girl (she told me she was sixteen later in the audience when she was sitting on my lap ^_^;;) lip-synched along to “Science Fiction, Double Feature” in lingerie. The film had me at “Michael Rennie was ill the day the earth stood still,” even though 89% of the B-movie references in the opening song went over my head. I was in love with the sequined-corset-wearing, red-lipped, gender-borking, orgy-loving, mad-scientist space-alien sexuality on screen. I think back on this night, fondly, as the end of my childhood. The bicycle-riding, tree-climbing part of me died right there in that filthy Indy dive, giving birth to the inchoate pansexual, genderqueer glam-geek I have now metamorphed into.
Oh fantasy, free me…
I saw that people came to the show dressed as characters from the film, and I knew, in my heart of hearts, that by next Halloween I wanted to have an incredible Columbia costume.
I managed to convince my mom (who is a conservative, Catholic Republican – bless her) to help me create a screen-accurate golden top-hat and tails. I spent hours sewing shimmering stripes onto a pair of black short-shorts. I literally learned how to do makeup so I could do this:
(for years I didn’t know eyeliner could be applied thinner than a half-inch)
My costume was awesome. I didn’t know just how obsessed with this film I would become over the next two years, or that I would eventually play Columbia in a shadowcast in Louisville, but the costume I made (okay, really, my mom made) eighteen years ago has stayed with me through cross-country moves, breakups, and pseudo-Buddhist worldly possession relinquishments. It’s still my go-to for last minute Halloween parties.
I haven’t been to a midnight show in almost ten years, but when the Boston Marathon bombing and subsequent city-wide shut-down happened last spring, the most comforting music I could find to listen to was the soundtrack to The Rocky Horror Picture Show.
…so you can’t see me, no not at all.
I know so many Magentas. Powerful goth-witches with heavy silver jewelry and hair as immense and mighty as their expertly-wielded sexuality. We’ve all met Franks. Charismatic narcissists who bring people together and invite (or coerce) them to explore new experiences and create community. You can’t throw a roll of toilet paper without hitting a Janet. A norm-cum-freak who just needs the tiniest nudge out of their comfort zone to let their true pervert nature flap freely in the wind.
Magenta is cool. Frank is cool. Janet is even cool under her initial uncoolness. Columbia is not cool. She has a squeaky, childlike voice and is continually rejected, cast aside, and ignored. The titles call her a Groupie, and we understand that she’s banging Frank, or at least used to bang Frank before his boner for her was swallowed whole by his boner for his man-toy Rocky.
She has lots and lots of feelings and is as unapologetic about them as she is about her sluttiness. She loves Frank despite how poorly he treats her. She sings that she “very nearly loved” Eddie. She casually does it with Magenta while she watches Rocky touch-a-touch-a-touch-a-touch Janet.
Unlike the other characters in the castle, Columbia is not an employee, a creation, or a prisoner. She is there of her own free will, but she also has very little power. Frank uses her and tosses her away when she doesn’t amuse him anymore. She can’t do anything to save Eddie from Frank’s murderous chainsaw. When Frank is killed by Riff Raff, she shrieks in anguish. This is one of the least wink-nudgey and most haunting moments of real emotion in the film. All her cry does, however, is cause Riff Raff to zap her with his raygun. She falls dead rather anti-dramatically, all because she couldn’t control her emotions.
Well I was walking down the street just a-havin’ a think.
I am stupid about love and careless with my heart.
My romantic history is full of unavailable people. There was the detached Buddhist poet who always had one foot in the monastery, the alcoholic commitment-phobe with anger-management issues, the couple I dated who made it clear from the get-go I would never fully be welcome inside their private world, and the endless, hopeless string of people whom I loved but who, for one reason or another, did not return the style or intensity of my feelings.
I’m not ashamed of my romantic history, exactly, but at times I am embarrassed by it. I look at my adult romances and see myself standing tearful in my stupid-ass PJs and Mickey Mouse ears, flashing a vulnerable nipple through the ripped blue flannel as I emphatically declare my love to an egomaniac whose reaction is to raise one dispassionate, sculpted eyebrow and throw a switch which turns me literally to stone. (Columbia is the only person in whole movie to show an R-rated body-part, BTW. If I were writing a douchey academic essay I would say something like this is because she’s the most emotionally naked of all of them, but after some googling about Little Nell’s other work I’m pretty sure it’s because Little Nell likes to show her nips because they’re awesome.)
Perhaps the most embarrassing part is how long it’s always taken me to leave situations that aren’t working. Like Columbia, I could have walked out of any one of these relationships at any time, but I always stayed until the entire castle collapsed on top of me.
Time meant nothing, never would again.
So I’m fourteen, two years before I kiss anyone and four years before I date anyone. I’m vaguely aware that I find lots of different genders attractive, but I don’t identify with any sexuality yet. I definitely have not begun to establish my romantic patterns, but I am inexorably drawn to this character on screen. This is the paradox, where time gets tricky. Was little barely-pubescent Jade in the Indianapolis film-works bar attracted to Columbia because these archetypal proclivities were already somehow wired into me? Or did my random love of this glittery character knit her patterns into my still-forming subconscious? I don’t generally admit to believing in an essential self, but when I look objectively at my unwitting teenage identification with Columbia, and the past eighteen years of sparkly interpersonal tap-dancing, I wonder how much choice I ever had in any of it.
Rose tints my world, keeps me safe from my troubles and pain.
I don’t know if it’s too late to change my Rocky Horror identity, or if it’s even possible. I may never be Magenta, who lurks in the corner and lasers fun-loving poly queers so she can zip off to space and boff her brother. I will not be Frank, who wears that corset so well and is an icon and all but is actually pretty rapey (impersonating someone’s partner to get them to fuck you is super not-okay.) I do not desire or require a Janet-like sexual awakening. I’m awake. I’m an impetuous tap-dancing slut in a suit of ten thousand sparkles, but I have loved. I have loved.
I have never related to a piece so much in my entire damn life.
Sweet. <3
Alllllll of this post. I was the Frank when I was fourteen in our motley high school crew Halloween expedition, which included a Magenta, a Janet, a Columbia, an Eddie, a Riff, and a Dr. Scott (and two not-into-RHPS-but-into-being-freaky-bisexuals Transylvanians, who were hooking up with each other and one of whom I was kind of dating and broke up with that night). There was basically zero debate about who was playing whom. In my heart of hearts, I am always a Frank. (Though I am also kind of the Crim, if I’m being honest. Obsessive record keeping, overly explanatory, no fucking neck…)
(PSSSST — Eddie, where are you?)
I AM HERE FRANK FRANK I AM HERE
(please don’t hurt me)
I took one of those Buzzfeed quizzes on which RHPS character I was and it said the Crim (and said very mean things about the Crim! Terrible!). It was an outrage. I am Eddie, through and through. The erratic sleep patterns ALONE, my god.
I fully believe I will go to my grave remembering that one guy in the theater who was screaming about the hamster.
He like still fucking does it though sometimes, jesus christ dude it’s been like 11 years.
This is such a great piece–out of all the Rocky Horror “awakening” pieces I’ve read, this is the first that talks about what the characters mean, not just the movie as a whole. And although I’m pretty solidly Janet at the moment, I’m pretty sure that further down the road I will be Magenta, for better or worse.
Random aside: In his wild college days, my dad, a big, tall, bearded guy, played both Frank and Eddie in various performances. This from the man whose interests include English operetta and sappy 70s movies. My dad is the best.
That is an awesome dad story, but also I <3 your user name!
This was really, really wonderful writing; I’d like to say exactly why (and I’ve spent the last 15 minutes trying) but can’t….just all the feels. The best I can come up with is: comparing one’s soul to a cult film character and baring it in such an honest, gentle way takes both whimsy and a good amount of bravery. Bravo!
PS. Adding the words “intelligent” and “insightful” to your writing style, too!
I will say that Rocky Horror loses it after “Toucha Toucha Touch Me” and I find it difficult to finish watching the second half, but the first half fills me with so much joy.
I am definitely also a Columbia who has secretly wanted to be a Magenta for her unflappable ice queen-ness and giant hair, but am too squeaky and inappropriate and like sequins too much to ever not be a Columbia.
I love this. And of course I cosplayed Janet because of course I did.
Me, too. I tried to vamp it up, but the reality is I was such a Janet. I strive to at least have an inner Magenta, though.
How you know you’re a Janet: when people get excited about dressing up for Rocky Horror, you think “I’d love to do Magenta… but you know, I already own this bra and half slip.”
Also: you already own a half slip.
That’s basically what I did.
Alas, I never had the hat, so I never played Janet. (Dammit!)
A Magenta here!! I LOVED THIS SO MUCH! I took one of my friends to RHPS (her first time!) last weekend and it was a hell of a time.
I KNOW THAT PLACE. Hollywood Bar and Filmworks! Right? Downtown Indy? I went there so much, and cried when it went under. I also attended many a night of Rocky. I’m sure our paths crossed. Thanks for throwing me back to that weird funky place.
Yes, I was just coming to the comments to say that I also first saw Rocky Horror at Hollywood Bar & Filmworks in Indy. I was a senior in high school and “borrowed” my sparkly show choir halter top to wear with ripped jeans and black fishnets.
Indy dirtbag solidarity. *fistbump*
I recently took a trip home and learned that The Emerson still exists somehow, so all is not lost for us Indy dirtbags.
That was a bit outside my stomping grounds (what up northside) and I don’t think I ever went there, but I’m glad it’s hanging on! The real tragedy for me was when The Abbey on Mass Ave got booted out for condos and a fancy cocktail bar. I’m still mad and it’s been at least 7 years.
Let’s have a Toast club of former Indy dirtbags. I know there’s at least one more around here.
The Abbey!! A thousand breaking heart emojis!! Call me for any Indy shenanigans. I’m there.
THE ABBEY oh god. And for the record, I HATE that stupid bar thing that exists there now. It’s so pretentious. Once I asked for sugar for my iced tea and you would think I asked for crack cocaine.
But can we talk about the real tragedy that was The Lockerbie being torn down long before it needed to be? Ohhhh so sad. I spent so many days and nights there. It was the first place I drove when I got my license. I still miss it.
I can’t believe the Emerson is still there, but I’m glad it is. I saw the Getup Kids there more than 10 years ago and it was still one of the best shows of all time.
THE GETUP KIDS. That CD was permanently in my shitty discman-attached-to-car-tapedeck for basically all of sophomore/junior year. I wish I’d been less of a nerd/theatre kid and more aware of things like actual concerts I could attend.
I’ve still never been to that stupid cocktail bar because I’m angry at it for replacing the Abbey. Love the rest of Mass Ave, but forget that place.
Are you quite certain we aren’t the same person? We might be. I went to that concert all by myself. I was the most uncool kid there. Literally none of my friends were interested in going. I have no regrets.
I generally like this, but the early paragraph “Me, I’ve always been a Columbia…” is the kind of paragraph that I have been trying to write my whole short life. Jesus. Excessive and deft at the same time.
I wonder sometimes if this generation’s young folks go to see RHPS, and I wonder what coming-of-age-baby-weirdo things may replace it.
To the best of my knowledge, at least in my area, RHPS still holds a sacred place in midnight viewings – but people have also started doing shadowcasts of Repo! The Genetic Opera (which I have never seen and cannot speak for)
While this generation does still go see RHPS, I will put forth The Room as its wacky midnight movie successor.
My baby cousin (well, baby; she’s 21) is SUPER SUPER into her shadowcasting of RHPS. It gives me hope.
I love this, am now dividing everyone I know into characters and pondering film portrayals of vulnerability.
I just remember that episode of The Drew Carey Show where Drew and his crew are dressed up for Rocky and show up to see that Mimi and her gang has replaced it with Priscilla, Queen Of The Desert and they have a sing-off for control. My RHPS experiences were wonderful but awful at the same time (there were a lot, a LOT of abusers in the Rocky community here, because it was easy enough for them to hide there given the nature of the show) but accepting that a lot of it is very problematic but also hella important has helped with that.
That costume, though!
Oh. Oh. THAT’S why I dressed up as Columbia. Of course. I never realized. Thank you.
This piece is AMAZING.
Love this piece, as all your writings, because of its insightful commentary on the human condition. I can only hope that all of us aspire to be bisexual sluts, as it reminds us that love is to be found everywhere and shared with everyone.
Hee! I, on the other hand, was a Magenta who would’ve rather been Columbia (but another of our group too obviously had the right look and vibe, and “big-haired ice queen” was well within my wheelhouse). One year I just went as the Lips from the opening (black slutty clothes, red lipstick), though. RHPS is a good and oddly underused typology of human beings.
YES!
When I was first initiated into RHPS, I was told I would be a good Magenta. I had identified instantaneously with Magenta at first sight, UNKNOWN TO MY SPONSOR, who, BTW, is, was, and always will be a true Frankie.
Fell passionately in love with Jade about 33% through the first page.
This piece is incredible and so are you!
One of my best friend’s mum got her doctorate just so she could be Dr Scott.
Or at least that’s our working theory.
One of my best friend's mum got her doctorate just so she could be Dr Scott.
Or at least that's our working theory.
Magenta = Big Hair No Heart! More of a Brad myself, sad to say….
At age 12, for a Purim party, I was assigned the role of Eddie because I had the best leather jacket. It didn’t hurt that I was also (and still am) an unrepentant Meatloaf fan.
At age 12, for a Purim party, I was assigned the role of Eddie because I had the best leather jacket. It didn't hurt that I was also (and still am) an unrepentant Meatloaf fan.
<3! This is fantastic Jade. Thank you! I’m also a Columbia. I played her for one song in a talent show when I was a teenager, my best friend played Magenta. This was meaningful in about a million ways and definitely formative.
Very nice play! It is fantastic, good to see some passionate about Rocky Horrors.