Hairspray

The modern musical is rarely a happy prospect. Moulin Rouge and Chicago were little more than horrible novelties. More recently and terrifyingly, films of the stage musicals Rent and The Producers have kept audiences away in their droves. We had no reason to suppose then, that Hairspray, a lesser-known Broadway production based on the kitsch John Waters classic, would make for decent cinema. But, by golly it does.
From Nikki Blonsky’s bravura opening number, the delightfully subversive ‘Good Morning, Baltimore’, Adam Shankman’s musical extravaganza simply never lets up. Like the Waters original, Shankman’s film is part fairytale, all fabulousity. The Cinderella of the hour is Tracy Turnblad (Ms. Blonsky), a chubby daydreamer who idolises the resident dancers on The Corny Collins Show, Baltimore’s hippest TV spot. A stint in detention introduces Tracy to cool young black cats on the block. In this company, she quickly hones her dancing skills to earn a place among the Corny Collins elite much to the delight of her shut-in plus-sized mom (Travolta) and eccentric dad (Walken).
Unhappily, it’s 1962 and evil is about. Tracy’s rival, the white bread princess Amber Von Tussle (Snow) and her venomous stage mother Velma (Pfeiffer) are out to destroy the monthly ‘Negro Day’, the token black dance show hosted by record shop owner Motormouth Maybelle (Queen Latifah). A romance between Tracy’s goofy best friend (Bynes) and the charismatic Seaweed Stubbs (Elijah Kelley) only serves to heighten racial tensions.
Amidst the pantomime villains of the piece, the situation never gets too serious. Hairspray knows nothing really of hate, but it is entirely conversant with gooey, puppy love. Infectious tunes and irrepressible energy ensure that this will become the biggest slumber party hit since Grease, but the darkly sweet comedy of the piece, imported directly from Waters’ film, mean that ganders should dig it as much as the geese do.