KENNETH ANGER was an audacious filmmaker, a self-proclaimed magus, a never-closeted queer, a shameless scandalmonger, a sometime Satanist, a difficult person, and, as P. Adams Sitney put it, the “conscious artificer of his own myth.” He was also the King of Pop—at least that’s what I thought on first seeing Scorpio Rising (1963) in the mid-1960s, age sixteen, at New York’s Museum of Modern Art.There were other movies on that program; I remember being impressed by Gregory Markopoulos’s Ming Green and Ed Emshwiller’s Relativity. But Scorpio Rising blew everything else away: the enameled