If I time this right, this post should go live at midnight, which I hope feels appropriate. As I write this, on the 26th day of the ninth month of the two thousand and twenty-fifth year on our calendar, it's the 50th Anniversary of the release of The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

It's a movie I almost hated the first time I saw it.

By the time I first saw the movie (Picture it, Fort Wayne, Indiana, 1998) the movie was thoroughly entrenched as a midnight movie. One of my favorite podcasts, Midnight Mass, recently lamented the death of the midnight movie. It's something that I really hadn't noticed, other than the lack of midnight movies at my local theaters. I figured that was because I was in a smaller city, and that the tradition was still alive in bigger cities. But it seems it's hard to get people to show up for that sort of thing any more.

I'm always a little suspicous of nostalgia, which is a little ridiculous considering how much I indulge in it in some ways, but I will say, I really do feel like people—especially young people—are missing out. One of the joys of seeing a movie in the theater is the experience of it with an audience. There's something really special when you get an audience that's connected and enjoying it together. I realize that's increasingly rare, as people are doing everything from texting, talking, videoing, taking pictures... but when you get the right audience, it's magic. At Midnight? It's even more magical, somehow.

That night at Rocky? It was magical. But, as I said, I almost hated the movie. It was a showing with a prop bag. Which meant, as someone who didn't love being thrust into situations where he did not know how to do something AND as someone who didn't particularly love excess noise, it got scary quick. I had no idea what to do when or where. I was kind of behind the curve the entire time, in fact. Do I throw the hot dog? What about the rice? Do we still have to worry about birds and rice? And what is this water pistol for?

Illustrations by Phil Dejean from RockyHorror.com

And the noise? The first time I watched Rocky, I thought it sounded kind of ugly. Now, who knows how aged the film print we watched was. But even now, as I watch it nearly every year, I have to admit that the sound can be abrupt at times. When I'm showing it to people for the first time, I wonder if it'll sort of jangle in their ears. Will they not be able to make out the lyrics? Will they follow the plot? (Dr. Scott!) And does that even matter?

What I hope for them, but cannot replicate precisely at home, is that it'll work on them the way it worked on me. How the spirit of all those people, loving this thing that was over twenty four years old (at the time) and that was undeniably, gloriously queer—well, it opened my eyes. A little light was turned on. And it still hasn't gone out.

Each time I watch Rocky, and I watch it more often as I get older, I've noticed, I truly find some new detail or touch to admire. I've watched it just to pay attention to the costuming. I've watched it just to pay attention to the background characters. I understand the sly winks and the clever nods so much better now than I did as a nineteen year old. Now, I mist up as Frankenfurter sings "I'm Going Home" every. damn. time.

'Cause I've seen, oh, blue skies
Through the tears in my eyes
And I realise
I'm going home

It's this closer that's just so perfect for the movie. It's dramatic. It's overblown. It's camp as fuck. And it's so, so beautiful. There's this core of truth, in amongst the glitz and dancing and posturing. Much like Frankenfurter himself, there's a beating heart there that is both fascinating and strangely relatable. I think that's what's kept audiences captivated for 50 years. You can see it once, have a good time, and be done with it forever. But for those of us who speak some form of dialect of weirdo, outsider, queer—it imprints on us for life.

I wouldn't have it any other way.

Long live queer art. Long live the weirdos. Long live Rocky Horror.