
The Cockettes will be the midnight movie at the Sunshine this weekend, and I feel as though for ONCE in my life, God has not forsaken me. In fact, he is smiling down on me, sprinkling magical unicorn tooth special dust all over my world.
When I first saw this transcendent, vibrant documentary about the legendary, San Francisco-based dance troupe, I cursed the day I was born because it wasn't early enough to see any of their musical extravaganzas. With titles like, "Tinsel Tarts in a Hot Coma" and awkward chorus line dances to "Honky Tonk Woman" by the Rolling Stones, I could scarcely help stripping down to my skivvies and jumping on my bed to the beat of their wacko drum.

The Cockettes were an endearing group of broke-ass, drugged-out commune-dwelling hippies, who one day decided to dress up and take the stage. Despite the fact that none of them could sing or dance, their mishmash, outrageous performances gradually picked up steam, attracting fancy fans the likes of Truman Capote, John Lennon, Oscar de la Renta, John Waters and Gore Vidal.

Unlike most documentaries about legendary people, which honor the obvious talent of household names, The Cockettes is about legendary nobodies. Nobodies who weren't afraid to be themselves and have a freaking ball.