Abstract
In a piece entitled Guilty Pleasures, John Waters engages a pseudo-solemn moment of what he calls cinema confession. As a Catholic, he admits that guilt comes naturally, and so it happens that, overpowered by the divine urge to come out of the art closet, John Waters shamefully confesses: I'm also secretly a fan of what is unfortunately known as the 'art film.' If there were such a thing as transgression for Waters, this would have to be it sneaking into arty films in the same way business men rush to see Pussy Talk on their lunch hour. But while Waters's confessional discourse of guilt and contrition separates the licit from the illicit that is, trash film enthusiasm from the
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