HAIRSPRAY
Shaftesbury
Theatre, London WC2
Opened 30 October, 2007
****
Somewhere beneath the skin and shock-absorbing layer of body fat of
cult-movie-turned-stage-musical Hairspray
lurks a problem. Or perhaps somewhere beneath my skin. The story tells, of
course, of teenager Tracy Turnblad – a girl The Who would have
described as "meaty, beaty, big and bouncy" – her ambition to appear as
a dancer on her local TV pop show in 1962 Baltimore and, growing in
parallel with this, to see the show racially integrated. The ridicule
and aspersions Tracy receives because of her build give her common
cause with the black kids. Now, while it is refreshing to see (as a
programme essay notes) "a girl whose weight isn't the most important
thing about her", there is something too glib about, in effect,
treating fat people as honorary blacks for the sake of a yarn.
The show is not just affirmative but passionate about racial equality;
if Nina Simone were still alive, she would cover the second-act number
"I Know Where I've Been". But the fat business is treated as a bit of
fun, and it plays calculatedly on what we will and will not consider
grotesque. Leanne Jones' Tracy is not grotesque: although built for
comfort rather than speed, she is some sizes more svelte than the young
Ricki Lake in John Waters' original 1988 movie. Michael Ball as her
mother Edna is grotesque
because s/he is basically a pantomime dame in a fat suit (all those
costume changes!), and moreover is filling the shoes of the late Divine
whose entire career was founded on bad taste. Of course, corpulent
people are acceptable in entertainment, but you wouldn't want one of us
living next door. I did not feel liberated by this portrayal of folk
nearly as big as me gettin' on down; I felt patronised, and a little
exploited. Then, by association, the matter of racial equality is
trivialised on the rebound: big dance number, healthy diet, end of
problem.
However, this knot takes disproportionately long to describe. Let me
emphasise that in every other respect, this is one of those pesky shows
that absolutely refuse to be disliked. Ball is terrific as Edna
Turnblad; I realise, with some embarrassment, that I do not think I
have ever disliked him in a show, including the musical cabaret evening
when he sang some Radiohead. Here, he relishes the "draggier" moments
(the extravagant frocks, the sudden drop to basso for a word or two),
but also knows how and when to... well, I hesitate to use the word
"underplay" of a show like this. Jones, in her professional debut,
deserves a prosperous career in more than just big-girl roles; she
energetically sells Tracy's indefatigable good heart even when things
are at their blackest. Making a now rare stage appearance as father
Wilbur Turnblad, Mel Smith may need a bucket to carry a tune, but his
and Ball's duet "Timeless To Me" is a masterclass in schlock, in the
best way possible.
Johnnie Fiori as Motormouth Maybelle is commanding when she speaks and
spine-tingling when she sings; in fact, this show with its
custom-written pastiche numbers has more soul than the supposedly
"authentic" but passionless Motown revue Dancing In The Streets. And Tracie
Bennett turns in a gleeful performance as harridan Velma Von Tussle,
the TV show's producer and the mother of Tracy's arch-enemy Amber. I
struggled hard to resist being completely washed away on the wave of
feelgood this show generates, and in the end, despite all I have said
above, washed away I was... and with someone of my size, that means
quite some wave.
Written for the Financial
Times.
Copyright © Ian Shuttleworth; all rights
reserved.
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