[The following review contains MINOR SPOILERS; YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!]

Obscene. Perverse. Profane. Depraved. Grotesque.
These adjectives accurately describe nearly all of John Waters’ early work, but they’re especially applicable to Female Trouble, the filmmaker’s ultimate refutation of Sixties nostalgia—his definitive thesis statement on the grit and grime lurking beneath the era’s superficially wholesome, pristine, squeaky-clean façade. It is not, however, intended as a condemnation of "immoral" or "abnormal" behavior; on the contrary, the movie embraces the bizarre, revels in the raunchy, celebrates the sleazy and unconventional. Sure, every character—from the highbrow hustlers to the low-born louts—is some manner of criminal or ne’er-do-well; that’s only natural, considering the world that they inhabit is inherently corrupt, hypocritical, and unjust. This theme is reinforced by Divine’s gender-blending dual role, which features the drag performer portraying exaggerated caricatures of the most negative qualities commonly associated with both femininity (vanity, self-obsession) and masculinity (violence, chauvinism).
And yes, there is a scene in which the actor literally fucks himself.

Female Trouble is, in short, the epitome of counterculture cinema, quintessentially transgressive in its style and substance, comfortably residing in the vacant lot between the arthouse and the outhouse—a manure-drenched magnum opus, a treasure atop the trash heap, and a defiant middle finger to the delicate sensibilities of so-called “polite society” and the "ordinary people" that populate it. Avoid watching it if you’re a square; this one’s for the proud freaks!
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