If you rent Hairspray expecting to see a naked hitchhiker, a raping giant lobster, or a turd-eating transvestite, you may be disappointed.

Hairspray represents more-mainstream John Waters fare, but the inspired casting itself will warrant a look for this 1988 film. This would be the last Waters film for Divine; s/he died shortly after this project was completed. And that really is the Ricki Lake of trash talk-show fame, starring as chunky teen-dance-queen Tracy.

Waters sets the story in his beloved Baltimore in 1963. Tracy dances in front of her TV daily, fantasizing that she can appear on The Corny Collins Show (a local version of American Bandstand where the popular white kids with piled-up hair dance and become celebrities). Once a month, the show allows a Soul Train-style dancing segment run by Motormouth Maybell (played by blues/soul singer Ruth Brown), but the producers of The Corny Collins Show insist Baltimore is not ready for integrated dancing.

These are the hopeful Kennedy early '60s, when Lesley Gore and Chubby Checker songs were on more teenage minds than anti-war protesting and hippie culture were. Tracy gets a tryout, gets selected to the show, and is named to the semi-democratic teen council that advises Corny on musical matters.

She fulfills her dream, even though reigning teen queen Amber (Coleen Fitzpatrick) attempts to sabotage her with "fat" questions, spreads rumors that Tracy is a whore, and claims Tracy has cockroaches in her tossed hair.

Her beehive hairdo does get her into trouble with her geometry teacher, who blames her for blocking the view of the short kid sitting behind her. Thus, Tracy is humorously sentenced to special-education classes, and she fits in perfectly with all the misplaced African-American students (who know how to dance). One of the funnier scenes: The class faces a humiliating dodgeball game against a regular class that laughs at these "special education" students.

Lake is likeable in her role. She even dances quite well. It's surprising to see the relatively thin talk show host that exploits the sleazy side of humanity play a "pleasantly plump," positive, bouncy, and righteous type of character. We want Tracy to win in the end.


There are blatant social messages communicated through the racial-integration storyline, climaxed with the gate-crashing during Corny Collins Day at the local amusement park. The more subtle one could be a wish fulfillment for John Waters that other "outsiders" will recognize.

There is absolutely no way Waters could have been accepted into any popular teen council; likewise, there is no way the cheerful and outgoing Tracy would have been accepted either, despite her superior dancing skills. "Fat" kids who believed strongly in integration in 1963 Baltimore simply would never realistically be selected to such a council.

The social commentary is very superficial; it's more effective to enjoy the lightweight Hairspray for the comedy touches. And many of these are accomplished through some creative casting. Ricki Lake's performance is surprisingly good, but the ensemble cast supplies many of the laughs.


Divine plays her/his most sophisticated roles as both Edna Turnblad and Arvin Hodgepile. Edna tolerates her daughter's dancing fantasies while continually ironing clothes. She gets really excited at Tracy's success and the chance to get free extra-large polyester clothing with her daughter serving as spokesmodel for the Hefty Hideaway.

Although Edna stretches the polyester to its maximum and brings a few smiles for her subtle humor, Divine dons some extra-large men's clothing to portray racist and humorless station manager Arvin Hodgepile.

The scene that gave me the greatest chuckle? The one where overprotective Mrs. Pingleton (Jo Ann Havrilla) obsessively follows her daughter in a taxi and gets out to discover, to her horror, that she is in the black section of Baltimore. Watch her terrified face when she encounters the harmless wino, and laugh when she confronts Motormouth Maybell by demanding, "Don't you try any of your voodoo on me, you native woman!"

Very close to that: a great little scene with singer Ric Ocasek playing a Beatnik cat and Pia Zadora playing a Beatnik chick. Zadora gives Lake some advice on becoming a serious integrationist. She recommends ironing her hair, and explains: "When I'm high, I am Odetta. Let's get naked and smoke!" We leave Zadora hilariously quoting from Allen Ginsberg's "Howl."

Effective cameos by Debbie Harry and Sonny Bono (portraying Amber's racist, indulgent parents) and John Waters himself (as a crazed psychiatrist fond of hypnotic pinwheels and fluorescent cattle prods for therapy), all supply additional enjoyment.

Not a great film, Hairspray certainly has a few quirky pleasures. It can serve as a harmless appetizer for Waters' works (it's actually rated PG), but it won't prepare you sufficiently to see Pink Flamingos, Mondo Trasho, or Multiple Maniacs.

As the inspiration for the Broadway musical and subsequent film remake, Waters original Hairspray is readily available and is tame enough to show your parents. Yet this mainstream Waters film has enough subtle references to allow you not to feel "square" by watching it. You'll need to be a lot more selective with your audience if you try any of his earlier films.