John Waters is one of the few artists who would accept acomplimentary comparison to Jeffrey Dahmer. "I didn't wantthem to leave," Dahmer said of his attempts at zombie-making. The simple poignancy of Dahmer's needy rationale and the horror of its expression are a jolting juxtaposition, an engrossing exhibition of desire and obsession. Director's Cut presents an engrossing exhibition of Waters' obsession: a highly twisted, idiosyncratic altar to celebrity and the movies. Waters doesn't want movies to leave. His photographs are almost exclusively movie stills taken off television screens, creating a marvelous freedom from the motion of motion pictures. Like VCR freeze-framing, they allow you to gaze to your scopophilic heart's content upon normally fleeting moments. As a specific memory detail may encapsulate a larger event, Waters' stills crystallize his vision of a film or career. A jock strap draped across a brass desk lamp stands for an entire sexual encounter; Baby Doll is reduced to Carroll Baker's empty crib. Like the crackling TV static in David Cronenberg's Videodrome, Waters' images are rough and sensually tactile. Moire patterns, pixels, and the curving black frame of the TV screen itself imbue the photographs with a lush, visceral texture absent from high-gloss art photography or porn. Jean Seberg burning at the stake, hypos puncturing veins, a**holes spread wide, Lana Turner's neck, the numeric countdown of a film leader: desire charges the innocuous and the explicit alike. The book elicits the same fascination as pornography for a fetish you don't share. Obese women or amputees may not send you, but expression of the obsession in and of itself is riveting. With comedic self-portraits and stills of famous, infamous, and mediocre director's credits (including Waters and the legendary pseudonym Allan Smithee), Director's Cut turns Waters' obsessive gaze back onto himself and his own filmic celebrity, extending his inquiry beyond even the scope of his films.