Review: Hairspray: The Musical

My Experience

Okay, here’s a secret: I really, really didn’t want to watch Hairspray: The Musical. If you’ve seen the film, you’ll know that it’s terrifyingly, aggressively, abrasively cheerful. It’s about as upbeat as it’s possible to get without the help of illegal substances. And a whole lot less fun.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not some joyless, miserable freak; I am in fact entirely pro-joy. I positively live for it. But there’s a limit, and John Travolta in a fat suit, hollering tunelessly out of the telly, that’s definitely pushing it. By the end of the film, the level of sheer niceness had managed to bring out my very worst side. And I had no reason to think that the stage version would be any different. I was fairly certain that I’d come out feeling the need to somehow counteract the relentless perkiness of it all: push a small child into a gutter, or step on a teddy bear, or drop a kitten. Anything. So why did I go? Well, it was Monday night, I had nothing better to do, and I figured that at least we were near enough to Soho that we could, if necessary, head to a bar afterwards to try and block out the experience.

The evening started badly – we got totally lost, spending half an hour fighting our way up and down Shaftesbury Avenue through crowds of people. Eventually, with barely a minute to spare, we found the right theatre (we’d been at the wrong end of the street) and made it to our seats, already in need of a drink or two. A couple of minutes later, up came the curtains, and the stage erupted into “Good Morning Baltimore.”

In case you don’t know, the plot of Hairspray goes something like this: in 1960s Baltimore (obviously, or the song would make no sense) lives Tracy Turnblad, an early victim of today’s childhood obesity problem – a sympathetic observer would call her a Big Girl. The only thing matching her waist size is her hair, and the only thing matching that is her love of dancing. Through some fairly tenuous twists of fate, she wins a spot on the local teen dance program, “The Corny Collins Show,” and becomes an overnight minor celebrity (think Big Brother housemate with a beehive), prompting fits of rage from the token Baddies – another girl on the show and her mother, who think that said girl should be the star.

As if this wasn’t enough, Tracy then decides that the show needs to be integrated, a revelation sparked by a stint in detention during which she discovers that the black kids – gasp! – can dance better than the white ones. Probably because they spend so much time in detention, practising. From what I remember of my own times in detention, boom boxes and bump n’ grinds weren’t exactly de rigueur, but it was a long time ago. Maybe I’ve just forgotten.

Sadly, asking to have a couple of Minorities on The Corny Collins Show seems to be akin to suggesting that they air hardcore porn during primetime: it just ain’t done in 60s white America. Following a hastily-organised protest which results in a spell in jail (juvenile laws apparently being discarded in favour of a good story), Tracy comes out on top with the help of Love Of Her Life and local heartthrob Link Larkin, managing not only to get black dancers on the show, but somehow discredit the Baddies in the process. “Now every day can be Negro Day!” exclaims Tracy as she shimmies across the stage, leaving me wondering how on earth they managed to get away with that in today’s political-correctness climate. Maybe happy endings defy racism.

If you’re utterly confused by this plot, then don’t worry: you’re not alone. The only reason I had any clue whatsoever what was going on was due to having seen the film (it had its uses after all, I guess). But at some point I realised that the plot isn’t really the point of this show. You just have to sit back, relax and accept the silliness of it all. As we know, I went in fully expecting to hate the whole thing – but you just can’t hate Hairspray. Partly, that’s because the real-life version is a lot less PG than the film. Double entendres and dirty jokes crop up regularly, and the whole thing loses its twee, Disney-style air. What was irritating on film becomes infectious on stage, until you can’t help but giggle along with the songs you know and dance around to the ones you don’t.

The cast themselves seem to be having so much fun that it rubs off on even the most unwilling audience member, but are also genuinely talented – Chloe Hart as Tracy tends to shriek slightly when she goes for the high notes, but you can forgive her that when she bounces across the stage with such endearing enthusiasm. Belinda Carlisle (who, according to Wikipedia, is a Grammy nominee, but no, I’d never heard of her either) is actually pretty amazing, purring her way through such classics as “Miss Baltimore Crabs”. Phill Jupitus, playing Tracy’s mother, is funnier and more fabulous than he has any right to be, and Sharon D Clarke as Motormouth Maybelle has definitely subscribed to the Queen Latifah school of sensuality, as per “Big, Blonde and Beautiful,” which admittedly involved more skin-tight satin than I was strictly comfortable with (think of the chafing!), but hey, each to their own.

By the end of the show, I was a convert, rising with the rest of the audience to give a standing ovation during the bows, which somehow then turned into everyone dancing around between the seats and in the aisles. This continued all the way down the street, as we waved our arms around in something like dancing, and sang any scrap of song we could remember in a loud, off-key Hairspray medley that no doubt annoyed and scared every other person on the street.

And yes, we did go for that drink. Since we were there already and all.

Directions

One of the nice things about this particular show is how near it is to the Generator: if it’s a nice night, you could walk it in fifteen or twenty minutes. If you really can’t bear that idea, though, then take the Piccadilly Line from Russell Square, and change at Holborn to the Central Line. One stop west, and you’re at Tottenham Court Road, just a few minutes from the Shaftesbury Theatre.

Hot Tip

Matinee performances are generally cheaper than the evening ones, and a good way to spend an afternoon if you’re at a loss for what to do. Ask in the Generator Travelshop to find out about ticket prices.

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