American Juggalo (2011)

There’s a marvellous dynamic in Sean Dunne’s 24-minute documentary American Juggalo. As genre, the film documents an annual convention cum festival. It could be the Republicans, Rotarians, Democrats, professors of Modern Languages, Chevy sales folk, but no — it’s the Juggalos, hardcore fans of the Detroit hip hop duo, Insane Clown Posse. 

To start with, it’s a freak show. The cameo appearances are weird, incoherent, stoned. They are almost always profane: “I am a motherf*ing nice person - I can cook like a motherf*er - that makes some f*ing straight up f*ing grub. F*ing chicken fried steak, f*ing collard greens, f*ing mashed potatoes - all that f*ing sausage, gravy, biscuits... f*ing everything man... I cook like a motherf*er.” So Chevy sellers they’re apparently not. 

These people are unattractive. If they’re not naturally repulsive they break out the studs and tattoos and weirdo garb to become that. As the title suggests, the Juggalos are a bathetic antithesis to the slickness and suave of Richard Gere in American Gigolo. A typical film audience will grow more and more irritated or disgusted by this parade and will feel increasingly superior.

But as the cooking guy may suggest, these weird losers touchingly yearn for some normalcy, some acceptance, even some romance: “I wanna find a skinny ass little bitch, make her fat and then we lose weight together... then we bond.” They use what they have in unconventional ways, like this gal: “It says 'Titties 4 a dollar' - my boyfriend wrote it. Yeah I show my titties to everyone... getting money.” 

For four days here the losers can feel like winners. As one woman remarks, “I had an old man tell me that there was nothing good left in the world and I actually believed that sh*t until I came here seeing all the titties, all the weed, all the fast food... I mean this shit's bomb.”

If we can rein in our revulsion the characters can become sympathetic. Apart from those with children (around or inside), they’re not hurting anyone. They’re just cutting loose for a brief good time, like any conventional people — bankers who break out their flowered golf shirts, secretaries who’ll grab a two-martini cabana lunch — because they’re on holiday, on a reprieve from the world that suppresses them. To our surprise, they’re not all losers. Several are managers of their departments. One man is a brain surgeon here for the LSD. 

Then comes the kicker. One member extols the group’s ardent brotherhood. This is a loving community. There is no judgement or rejection. There is no bigotry. They all accept each other regardless of their physical or behavioural quirks. With this speech the film turns its exposure against us. The more we have allowed our disdain, disgust, dismissal of these people to grow, the more we have assumed our superiority over their difference, the more the film now makes us the target of its satire. The parade of weirdos is a test of our tolerance.

     Most of us should leave this film chastened. Mightily amused, then chastened.