Through interviews, home movies, and behind-the-scenes footage of Waters at work, we get a fairly complete picture of the Baltimore director who gave us such low-brow trash masterpieces as Roman Candles, Mondo Trasho, and what some movie-goers believe to be the greatest film EVER, Pink Flamingos. With such interesting characters at the documentary's epicenter, one would expect such an exploration to be flawless. It isn't. Yeager treats his subjects with such geeky reverence, overloading the film with so many fawning sycophants, you might mistake it for a documentary about Mother Theresa, rather than a guy who once filmed a drag queen being raped by a lobster.
Pointy-headed film nerds aside, the story of Waters and his friends eventually triumphs over the documentarian's clumsy attempts, leaving you with a joyous appreciation for his art, as well as the necessity of breaking life's many barriers. And that's some shit I don't mind swallowing.