Rocky Horror is infantile paralysis grown up: transvestitism, Oldenburg weird sets, satire on Warhol's Frankenstein, some soft rock clamoring. Sort of film that's accessory to the secret medicine chest. Seen best with a happy-honk swab up your nose….

The Rocky Horror Cult is instructive. More than instructive: a synecdoche for aesthetic trends that have been in the brooder house since God knew when….

Audience response is cathartic: a Pancho Villa insurrection against the passive media—TV and film. There isn't one of us who hasn't wanted to rank our Eric Severeid or Howard Cosell. And the obscenity is innocent, healthful. TV in particular leeches on subvocal/subvisual sex. Dialogue will titillate by innuendo. The Rocky Cult children deflate this hypocritical "self-censorship." You could interject, "Sit on my face" over and over again during any segment of Charlie's Angels. The cheap, eunuchoid sexual tension is there: teased up. It...