‘Hairspray’ Wraps Up Bad Taste in a Big Heart

NEW YORK--The most unlikely, most romantic moment on Broadway comes--no, it floats--into theater history some time after intermission at the Neil Simon Theatre.

Edna, who describes herself as a “simple housewife of indeterminate girth,” has the voice of Beelzebub of Brooklyn, bosoms the size of her bouffant and a bouffant the size of her husband. Wilbur, who owns a small joke store, wears his pants up to his armpits and the sweet smile of failure. But when they dance, ah, when they dance, they are suddenly more Fred and Ginger than Fred and Ethel. She compares him to rare vintage Ripple, he says she’s a stinky old cheese and they pledge “the fact we ain’t dead yet” in a duet that, against all odds, transports us to a blood-pounding sanctuary of deep, lasting love.

In such a moment, “Hairspray,” which opened Thursday night after enough hype to power a nuclear sub, lifts the $10.5-million adaptation of John Waters’ bad-taste, good-values 1988 cult film into the must-see zone of transcendence. In fact, every time Harvey Fierstein’s magnificent mountain-mama Edna tosses off a droll aside, admits an insecurity or puffs up with pride over her adoring husband (Dick Latessa) or her spunky, “big-boned” teenage daughter, the level of satire, artistry and humanity rises in the world.

Otherwise, “Hairspray” is a cheerful, good-natured cartoon with a first-rate cast and a big-budget 1962 tacky look. The show is not always as interesting or funny as it pretends. But it is a high-energy spoof within a spoof within a big-hearted message about the triumph of black people, fat people and, by extension, outsiders of all worthy persuasions. Any comparison with “The Producers” is wishful thinking. On the other hand, there is no shame in the winking candyland-pop tradition of “Bye, Bye, Birdie” and “Grease.”

Director Jack O’Brien and choreographer Jerry Mitchell are far more joyfully faithful to the spirit of the original than they were in their strangely charmless hit adaptation of “The Full Monty.” Authors Mark O’Donnell and Thomas Meehan (Mel Brooks’ collaborator on “Producers”) have kept much of Waters’ best wisecracks and his story about Tracy Turnblad, a hefty white Baltimore teen (gutsy newcomer Marissa Jaret Winokur) who gets picked as a regular on the local version of “American Bandstand.” She also wins the love of the most desirable boy, incites a race riot to bring integrated dancing and respect for “colored music” to a show that formerly boasted a single “Negro Day” a month.

Marc Shaiman has written a cavalcade of catchy faux-early rock ‘n’ roll numbers for the white people, some very sly rhythm and blues for the blacks. It is hard not to miss the real hit songs used in the film. But Shaiman and co-lyricist Scott Wittman do reach beyond their opening number, “Good Morning Baltimore,” to music that combines girls’ group nubile innocence with borderline insolence.

The results are innocuous and a little subversive. There are so many noble pronouncements against jokes about overweight people that the show comes close to being one big fat joke disguised as progress.

Winokur jumps confidently into Ricki Lake’s wide shoes. She has a big expressive voice and a decent enough dance technique and, though her Tracy tends to be a one-note heroine, the note has gusto.

Matthew Morrison deftly combines James Dean’s cool and a Mouseketeer’s heart as Link Larkin, who loves Tracy for herself. His counterpart in the black neighborhood, Seaweed, is played with knowing style by Corey Reynolds. Kerry Butler is aptly adorable as Tracy’s shy but worthy friend, Penny. Jackie Hoffman descends to audience-pandering as the lesbian gym teacher and prison matron. Linda Hart and Laura Bell Bundy have fun playing the white establishment’s version of Cruella DeVil and daughter.

Fierstein is back on Broadway for the first time since his barrier-breaking “Torch Song Trilogy” in 1983. As Tracy’s mom, he wears stenciled eyebrows--a homage to the late Divine?--and fills out more than a fat suit in William Ivey Long’s body-perfect costumes. Fierstein gets the best lines, but he also finds the layers of real humanity beneath the attitude.

The hairstyles could make Marie Antoinette want to go into show business. David Rockwell’s sets are not as memorably outrageous as his extravaganza for “The Rocky Horror Show,” but they have a fantasyland bad tastefulness. It helps to remember that these were the awkward years between the ‘50s and the hippies.

This show celebrates hairspray, but some of us were waiting for “Hair.”

“Hairspray” at the Neil Simon Theatre, 250 W. 52nd St., New York. $65-$100. (800) 755-4000.

Linda Winer is chief theater critic at Newsday, a Tribune Co. newspaper.