As you watch Hairspray, it’s hard to believe that it came out of the twisted mind of John Waters. The cult writer-director found fame in the 1970s with Pink Flamingos, a film that broke the barriers of taste by featuring a fat transsexual called Divine actually eating dog poo. It’s amazing to see how, over the years, the man they called “the prince of puke” has reinvented himself as the Walt Disney of trash – lovable, avuncular, America’s favourite gay weirdo.

This film is not a remake of Waters’s original 1988 movie, but a version based on the 2002 Broadway musical. It should have been Grease for the gross-out generation, but, in the hands of that most middle-of-the-road director and choreographer Adam Shankman (who was responsible for the awful Wedding Planner), Hairspray offers a safe, soft and friendly form of camp that the whole family can enjoy.

The setting is Waters’s home town, Baltimore, on the cusp of the 1960s. Our heroine is Tracy Turnblad (Nikki Blonsky, a newcomer), a teenager who dreams of being a dancer on The Corny Collins Show, a television dance programme for teens. Tracy is an upbeat optimist who can’t help looking on the bright side. Hairspray opens with her singing Good Morning, Baltimore, a sunny hymn to her city, undeterred by the appearance of rats, a flasher and the local drunk.

Background

• Hairspray at Shaftesbury Theatre review

• Hairspray: The Musical

• It’s not over till...

• Hairspray - Sunday Times Review

• Hairspray, review of the 1988 film

Background

• Hairspray

• Hairspray - Sunday Times Review

• Hairspray, review of the 1988 film

• Travolta as you've never seen him

• Obituary of Divine

On the move: John Travolta

John Travolta talks about his career, his huge carbon footprint and playing a woman

Related Internet Links

• 2007 London Film Festival coverage

• Times Online Film Trailers

Related Links

• Hairspray Original Soundtrack

Tracy’s first attempt to get onto her beloved show ends in failure because – in the producers’ eyes – she is too fat and far too sympathetic to the civil rights of black people. Eventually, her unmistakeable talent for dancing prevails and she becomes an overnight sensation. But when the programme’s producer, Velma Von Tussle (Michelle Pfeiffer), bans the programme’s “negroes” edition, Tracy takes a stand for civil rights that could cost her her dream of winning the Miss Teenage Hairspray competition.

Sorry, folks, but a comic send-up of late-1950s/early-1960s America, with its hunky Brads, bionic blondes, religious bigots, overambitious moms and apple pie, strikes me as rather stale. Hairspray offers the worst of both worlds – a clichéd injunction to follow your dreams and a contrived comic campness that is forever winking at the audience. The film thinks it’s rather daring because it talks about “negroes” and gently mocks the liberal idealism of Tracy, but it’s all terribly timid. It may use the word “negro”, but it won’t call a fat girl “fat” (Tracy is “chubby” or “large”). It has a few funny moments, but none of the daring gags about small-town America that you find in The Simpsons.

The trouble is that Hairspray is so eager for the audience to have a good time, it’s scared to spoil the fun. It’s relentlessly upbeat: you are bullied into having a good time by one big bulldozer of a song after another. Like so many modern-day musicals, this film is a mess of musical styles: rock’n’roll, soul, gospel and more. The songs – by Marc Shaiman and Scott Witt-man – are pastiches of songs, and every one tries to be a show stopper. The film never builds up to a proper climax because it has been climaxing since the opening number. As for the choreography – by Shankman – we get a lot of franticfrugging and arm-flapping funky-chicken moves.

The best performance comes from Blonsky, who has a charming sincerity and a sweet voice, and dances with energy and enthusiasm. None of the young black characters is given any space; they are there to look cool and keep dancing. The dramatic spotlight is reserved for Queen Latifah, who plays Motormouth Maybelle. I don’t get the whole Latifah thing. Silly white people think she’s a strong black woman because she is big and fat. Now that she has lost weight, we can see how modest her talent really is.

The big talking point of the film, however, has been the appearance of John Travolta. You’ve never seen him in a role like this before – and, if you’re lucky, you’ll never see him like this again. He plays Tracy’s neurotic mother, Edna. He is meant to be hilarious because, well, it’s John Travolta in drag. But he looks like a big lump of latex. As for his dancing, he doesn’t dance – he waddles and wiggles in time. In his big numbers, he bumps and grinds like some burlesque grotesque.

Finally, the really bad news: I suspect that audiences will love this film. Then again, there’s no accounting for taste.

PG, 116 mins

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