John Waters

Filmmaker. Writer. Artist. Cultural saboteur.

The Pope of Trash needs little introduction, but let’s give him one anyway. For over half a century, Baltimore’s finest has pushed, poked and proudly annihilated the boundaries of taste with a wicked smile and a camera lens (or Sharpie, or microphone, or moustache comb).

From the gloriously grotty glory days of Pink Flamingos to the pop-slick subversion of Hairspray, Waters’ films are a masterclass in weaponising kitsch. A true outsider’s outsider, his work celebrates the grotesque, the divine, and everything in between. Divine, indeed — his longtime muse and collaborator whose legacy looms as large as Waters’ own.