John Waters’ forgotten punk ancestor
Everyone seems to crave the label of punk these days, but the reality is that the term has become a commodity, often divorced from the radical ethos it once represented. It’s a phrase that has been widely co-opted by artists and musicians who adopt the aesthetic without understanding the underlying spirit of rebellion.
We see this phenomenon everywhere. For instance, musicians like Yungblud might sprinkle punk imagery across their work, seemingly attempting to earn credibility. However, this often feels like a superficial gesture, lacking the genuine spirit of the movement.
The core of what truly defines punk isn’t about tartan, Doc Martens, or safety pins; it’s about an innate, total rejection of social norms. It is the raw, visceral feeling of pushing back against the establishment and embracing the high risk of alienation and being outcast. The original subculture emerged in the mid-1970s, fueled by bands like the Ramones and the Sex Pistols who used loud, fast music to challenge the status quo.
But true punk isn’t confined to music or fashion. The spirit of rebellion has always existed in radical acts of transgression. If you look back, many figures across history are retrospectively dubbed “punk”—from Arthur Rimbaud to Rosa Parks—because they dared to defy established systems.
Consider the cinematic side of this rebellion. Long before the music scene exploded, there were filmmakers who shattered boundaries simply by refusing to adhere to the mainstream. When John Waters began making films in the 1960s, he rejected the studio system by shooting on a shoestring budget with friends, bypassing all conventional boundaries.
Waters’ work, particularly transgressive films like Multiple Maniacs and Pink Flamingos, brought shocking, vulgar taboos onto the big screen. These boundary-smashing images were often performed by individuals who identified as outsiders—whether due to their sexuality, appearance, or unconventional lifestyles.
At the heart of this radical vision was Divine, Harris Glenn Milstead. As a pioneering drag queen, Divine approached femininity in a way that was deliberately hideous, crude, and outrageous, actively rejecting conventional standards of beauty. Divine didn’t just play a role; he embodied a form of rebellion that fundamentally shifted how drag was perceived.
Waters himself recognized this revolutionary quality. He observed that Divine changed drag queens, noting that today, every drag queen possesses an edge because of him. He famously stated that Divine was “punk before there was such a thing,” describing his look—overweight, scarred, carrying a chainsaw—as a precursor to the aesthetic we now associate with punk.
In films like Pink Flamingos, Divine pushed boundaries further, famously placing real dog feces in his mouth and engaging in extreme acts, essentially challenging conservative American sensibilities. This spirit continued in projects like Female Trouble and Polyester, where Divine continued to embody a vision of gender completely unhinged from norms.
The true legacy of punk lies not in imitation, but in the audacity to reject what is expected. It is a philosophy of total freedom, proving that genuine rebellion always finds a way to redefine the lines between the acceptable and the utterly outrageous.
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