It's the principle of the thing...

So, I had a chance to see the movie-musical version of Hairspray last night, as my sister got it for us as a Christmas gift. I would not have been inclined to seek it out myself, as the feedback I’d heard was generally pretty negative. Now that I’ve seen it, I really think most of the opposition has to do with needing to hate it “just on principle.” The cards are certainly stacked against it.

First, the original John Waters Hairspray from 1988 is wonderful entertainment and holds a firm place in many a cult film fan’s heart; plus since it’s just so darn winning, it has many more fans than most John Waters films. Many of these fans question the whole idea of making a musical out of Hairspray – why would that be necessary? Why, when the original hangs together so well and has such a kickass soundtrack as it is, made up of forgotten and semi-forgotten R & B tracks from the ‘60’s? Can a Broadway score really keep pace with Little Peggy March, The Five Du-Tones, and The Flares? The result is likely to be disappointing. Further, could any adaptation match the inspired casting (notice I don’t say inspired acting) of the legendary Divine, Jerry Stiller, Sonny Bono, Ricki Lake (at the time a virtual unknown, believe it or not), Blondie front-woman Debbie Harry, Waters regular Mink Stole, and Ruth Brown? In particular, Lake and Divine seemed to leave an indelible stamp on their roles – they were Tracy and Edna Turnblad in the minds of most fans.

Second, the Tony-winning spectacle of the 2002 Broadway musical Hairspray also has a devoted fan base, with deep and abiding affection for the original cast of Marisa Jarrett Winokur and gay drag legend Harvey Fierstein as Tracy and Edna Turnblad. Such strong acting personalities again left an indelible mark on the minds of fans; while the score (by Marc Shaiman) has never been considered as strong as the film (despite nabbing fistfuls of Tonys), it is certain that Fierstein’s singular delivery and distinctive croak are as strongly identified with the musical as Divine is with the original film.

So, along comes the film version of the musical (certainly one of the few stories to begin as a film, be adapted as a musical, and return to film as adapted), and it faces quite the uphill battle to win over fans who have already made up their minds that it simply has no reason to exist. As is fairly common, the original Broadway cast was discarded in favor of film stars and unknowns, which might not pose such a big problem except that one of those film stars is John Travolta, a personality so freighted with hits and disasters (and little in between), Scientology, tabloid gossip, and star excesses, that he can’t help but be polarizing for any potential audience. Further, he is cast as the beloved Edna, a role fully inhabited in the minds of fans of both the movie and the stage show by iconic gay drag professionals, while Travolta’s most feminine role was easily the almost-forgotten Boy In The Plastic Bubble – 30 years of macho heterosexual leads and supporting roles helping to bury a sensitive performance that could in no sense have been considered drag anyway. NO! REASON! TO! EXIST!

The muttering about this film started the second production was announced, and escalated to full on grumbling and groaning by the time the first trailers previewed. “Is nothing sacred?” cry the fans of both film and stage show, horrified at the transformations taking place, sullying the memory of two beloved entertainments. I heard it – as a huge fan of the original movie I had my own reservations, and each day they were shored up by the venomous sniping at the outrage being filmed in Toronto. Toronto! Do they not realize that John Waters belongs to Baltimore? Like many, I didn’t go see it in the theaters, and rapidly declining grosses saw it dropping by over a thousand screens within three weeks of release.

So, the DVD arrives neatly wrapped beneath the tree, and in the midst of a television writer’s strike besides. Faced with the dwindling returns of reality television and short-season reruns, seeing something else (anything else, actually) had its appeal. So…what the hell. See it we did.

Y’know what? It’s pretty darn fun. I enjoyed it, and sat with an enchanted smile through many of its charming scenes. It’s nicely done.

This is not John Waters’s Hairspray. It’s mostly Leslie Dixon’s, the writer who adapted it for the stage and again for the new film. The plot has some similarities with Waters’s, but at least an equal number of differences. Fat girl auditions for weekly dance show, prevails on talent and charisma, and finds love in the midst of becoming a civil rights activist for the cause of dancin’ African-Americans in Baltimore. Dixon had to pare the script to make room for the music, and hones the focus very nicely. Naturally, some of Waters’ more outré inclusions were lost along the way – close up pimple popping, Sonny Bono’s greasy amusement park operator, belabored subplots involving psychotherapy and juvenile detention, and beatniks embodied by Ric Ocasek and Pia Zadora in jaw-dropping cameos. The locations are simplified, the plot streamlined, the characters pared to a manageable few.

While Waters body of work and filming style make it difficult to take his moralizing seriously (in fact dares you to take it seriously), Dixon clearly has an agenda, and a much more earnest tone. It’s a nice piece of adaptation – with new jokes and sight gags, different taglines, and modified character motivations, it stands on its own much more readily than a more faithful adaptation might have managed. By developing something similar yet altogether different, Dixon manages to downplay direct comparison between the works, which is no mean feat.

Director/choreographer Adam Shankman keeps the plot moving along, most of which is advanced in musical numbers ably sung by the talented cast, including Travolta (more on that later), Michelle Pfeiffer, James Marsden, Queen Latifah, and newcomer Nikki Blonsky as Tracy Turnblad. Blonsky has a gigantic amount of music to deliver in this version, and acquits herself ably. She is unquestionably Tracy Turnblad – a character that may possibly be actress-proof; no matter who portrays her, the essential charisma first exhibited by Ricki Lake is out in full force. It is commendable that the singers were well chosen, since there is really very little dialog in the show – most spoken bits are only a few lines setting up the next musical number. As far as the dancing, it seems clear that Shankman is a gifted choreographer, though his film skills don’t always capture his work with the necessary élan – I was watching this on a small screen and musicals often suffer there, but the bigger problem seemed to be Shankman being indecisive about where to point his camera to catch the best stuff. As a result, the singing far outshines the dancing as captured on film. It doesn’t ruin the show, but it is a shame in a story that is so centered on the drama of a televised dance program. Shaiman’s music doesn’t hold up to the period authenticity and brilliance of the original movie’s soundtrack, but it is a serviceable Broadway-style score, and again, does not ruin the show. Blonsky and Latifah in particular have some very fine vocal moments, and almost every cast member has some chance to shine in vocal performance. You may not be humming the songs afterward, but you probably won’t be humming in impatience during the movie either.

While Waters’s anarchic visuals and script have been largely lost in translation, Dixon and Shankman keep in enough questionable taste and sight and sound gags to retain at least a mild flavor of the original’s bite. Waters’s subversive casting (Fat girl! Fat drag queen!) is part of the vernacular here, of course, but Shankman manages to add some subversion of his own, whether intentional or not – it’s really something to see an actress whose sexuality is the stuff of neverending rumors (Latifah) sing a come-hither ditty (much more explicitly than her Mama Morton ever did in Chicago) to another woman, albeit one who is actually a man dressed as a woman (Travolta), whose sexuality has also been the stuff of neverending rumors over the years. It makes one’s head spin.

Ah, yes, Travolta. His Edna really is a thing of beauty – a former glamour girl gone to serious seed, living as a pathetic shut-in terrified of having the neighbors see how far she has fallen, how enormous she has become. In this movie much of the role belongs to a fat suit and a multi-hour make up job; one almost wishes Travolta were hefty enough (and pretty enough) to carry the role on his own (and that someone had coached that bizarre accent into something at least remotely resembling an actual person’s speech.) Nevertheless he imbues Edna with a kittenish flirtatiousness and sexy physicality, and makes Edna’s transition from insecure homebody to canny outgoing businesswoman at least one of the more compelling subplots. While Tracy’s romance with Linc is an essential part of the plot, and her white friend Penny’s romance with the black teenager Seaweed even more so, Edna’s romance with her husband Wilbur (Christopher Walken!) is the real heart of this adaptation. There are many capable actors who might have been a better choice for the part, but Travolta more than carries his own here.

There are some lovely little gimmes for the hardcore fans – witty cameos by Waters and Lake, Jerry Stiller returning in a different role; still others for acting fans (let’s face it, the original cast were not likely to be awarded anytime soon) as Walken, Pfeiffer, Travolta, Alison Janney, and Latifah all dig into their parts like the seasoned pros they are. Zac Efron as Tracy’s love interest stands out in no particular way, but gets top billing on the DVD release, and Amanda Bynes (as Penny) reminds us that bad acting really is a part of the whole Hairspray gestalt. Seriously, was Hillary Duff unavailable? Or anyone else for that matter? But these are quibbles, and part of the way that business gets done in Hollywood these days – Efron’s name on the cover may sell a few more copies to the tweener set, while Bynes picture may make it seem wholesome enough to pass muster with Mom. All part of the packaging.

So, I guess I’m saying give it a chance. Yeah, I know you think it doesn’t belong, isn’t necessary, and resorts to stunt-casting. All of which are to some degree true. Still. While it’s not perfect, it really hits a wonderful note of blithe lightness, and has some very nice moments. And that’s reason enough to exist for me.

Happy Thanksgiving!

I'm thankful for the cats that enriched our lives up to and well into this year - Ethan and Eloise, my beauty and the brain - rest in peace, my lovelies. I'm very thankful for my continuing relationship with Boo - I spent so many years knowing men without growing with them, and while growing involves many growing pains, I have an experience with him now that transcends all else, even if it's like nothing I would have imagined, and, admittedly, often a lot less exciting than I hoped. I'm thankful for my loving parents, my sisters, nieces and nephews, for whom I continue to hope we can turn the world around and make it a sustainable and peaceful place - I don't think I shall live to see the "Republic of Heaven," but I still think it's worth trying to build it. I'm thankful for technology that continues to make the world smaller, and allows me to meet, greet, and visit with wonderful friends from all over the world by simply looking over my digital back fence. I'm thankful for Prozac and modern medicine, without which I'd either be dead or locked in an institution as an invert with suicidal tendencies. I'm grateful for the continued efforts of all who say "this is who I am, and you may not treat me differently under the law," for we cannot build peace and stability on the broken backs of the oppressed. I'm thankful for being fortunate to be born in prosperity, having more than I ever will need, and the ability to say, "Thank you, that will be more than enough, thank you." Happy holiday, everyone!

Conversations at 3 am With a Dying Kitty

Saturday night/Sunday morning

RW: Well, Missy-toes, it’s 2 am; we’ve watched SNL, a tape of Chuck, and this episode of Traveler is almost over – you about ready to hit the hay, Eloise?

Eloise: Uh – uh, oh, I need help! I can’t walk straight – I can hardly walk at all! What’s happening?

RW: Oh, shit! Baby Cat, are you okay? Does it hurt? Hold still. Let me hold you.

Eloise: Whoa, that’s a trip. I can’t make my legs work right. My brain is gefukt, isn’t it?

RW: Probably. Let me get a shower and some clothes on; I’ll call a cab and we’ll go to the vet. Why do you cats always do this to me? It’s 2:30 am on Sunday morning – do you think any vet is open other than the emergency? This is not going to be fun. Look, let’s put your bed right here by the tub, will you stay still for a moment while I shower? Just don’t move.

***

RW: Okay, I’m cleaner and awake – it’ll probably take a bit for the cab; how are you holding up?

Eloise: I crapped in my bed. Also, I think I’m going to throw up.

Can you clean it up? It’s disturbing.

RW: No prob. Other than that are you okay? Breathing okay, feeling okay?

Eloise: I’m…I’m alright when you keep me still. I can’t really groom; could you stroke me? It helps. It feels like grooming. Ahhh…that’s it. Prrrrrrr…

RW: Man, this is not good – your eyes are shaking from side to side. I wish Boo was here; he’s going to be so heartbroken. You do know if we go to the vet that you won’t be coming home?

Eloise: Yeah. Yeah, I understand. Let me just rest for a moment.

RW: You’ll let me know if you’re hurting won’t you? Because we can go – I’ll do anything to keep you from hurting. Boo will understand.

Eloise: I’m mostly just tired now – can we not go right now? When will Boo be home?

RW: Tomorrow, tomorrow in the evening. You don’t have to wait that long.

Eloise: Yeah, just let me rest.

RW: I’ll be right here.

***

Eloise: Are you awake?

RW: Yeah. This floor is really hard. On the other hand, my arms and legs are going numb, so I probably won’t feel it soon.

Eloise: I pooped again – could you get it? It’s very undignified.

RW: I think you’re kind of past dignity at this point.

Eloise: Speak for yourself – brain damage maybe, but these things still matter.

RW: Well, you always were so graceful…you’re still very beautiful.

Eloise: Don’t lie to me. I’m staggering like a drunken sailor. This really sucks.

RW: Well, try not to move. Want to go sit on the couch? I can still call that cab if you want…

Eloise: No. Clean up that poop; let’s talk for a while. We don’t get much chance to do that any more.

RW: Well, you are nocturnal. When you’re not sleeping 20 hours a day.

Eloise: I’m a cat. Try not to focus on that so much – I’m a creature of instinct; what’s your excuse?

RW: You haven’t had to use your instincts too much – we’ve tried very hard to give you an easy life.

Eloise: Instinct is not something that just shuts off – my social interactions, my general behavior, all instinctual.

RW: So what’s the cardboard box thing about? I’ve never seen a cardboard box in the wild.

Eloise: Do you have a cardboard box?

RW: No.

Eloise: Well, get a cardboard box. You’ll either understand, or you won’t.

RW: Right. …and the dancing?

Eloise: Hey, that’s your thing. You started dancing with me, not the other way ‘round.

RW: Takes two to tango…

Eloise: I suppose. I dunno. It’s fun. You’re fun. You play with me a lot; a little dancing now and then is a kick. But that red-dot thing is more fun.

RW: I don’t think either is a good idea right now.

Eloise: Yes. I think my dancing days are over. I’m going to die now, aren’t I?

RW: Yes, I think that’s true. If you need to go, I’ll stay with you. Or if you need help we can get some. Seriously, if it hurts at all, we can end it. Just a short cab ride, and they’ll put you to sleep.

Eloise: I’m okay. Let’s keep talking. You’ve been a good friend.

RW: You’ve been a good cat – you’re the smartest, most graceful, most beautiful cat we’ve had. And you know how much I loved Ethan…

Eloise: Oh, yeah, Ethan. Not the sharpest claw in the paw…

RW: Well, but Rhoda…

Eloise: Oh, that girl was a real mess. It’s been a rough couple years with the pets, hasn’t it? You’re not going to have any kitties left, are you?

RW: You’re making me cry. I don’t want you to go.

Eloise: I’m not going anywhere yet…where do you think I’ll go?

RW: I have no idea. Do you know the song Strawberry Fields?

Eloise: Beatles? You never play the Beatles.

RW: Yeah, it’s more my parents thing…”Let me take you down, ‘cause you’re going to strawberry fields…nothing is real, and nothing to get hung about…” Sorry, I don’t know all the words. “Living is easy with eyes closed; don’t be surprised if it’s a dream…” shit, I’m out, and this is just making me cry again…the point is, I’m hoping it’s going to be nice for you. But I really have no idea. I’m not very religious, and even if I were, most religions are kinda fucked up about pets.

Eloise: I’m pretty sure I don’t believe in an afterlife.

RW: Really? Lots of humans do…

Eloise: Not all – take the ancient Celts. They didn’t.

RW: Well, it might have just never occurred to them, but you’re right they didn’t.

Eloise: And yet, if they needed to fight, they did it. Naked, wearing nothing but a metal torque around their necks and fierce expressions…you don’t have to believe in an afterlife to not fear death.

RW: I’m not sure I follow – do you know what time it is? Where’d you learn human history, anyway?

Eloise: I read some – you know I’m in your lap, or Boo’s, whenever you two are reading, or browsing the web…and I loved lying around on the Sunday New York Times…nice to keep up on the news.

RW: Well, without actually having to live most of it, I guess you’re right. But I’m still not tracking you on the Celts.

Eloise: I’m just saying that when the Celts went to battle, they didn’t spend the time beforehand praying and hoping they’d be good enough to get into Heaven. They spent the time getting ready to fight as hard as they could – they got into a mind of fierceness and killing and winning.

RW: Ah, I see what you’re saying; they’re like cats – they just go at it.

Eloise: No, they’re nothing like cats – they’re humans. Celts. They probably did fear death. But they didn’t let it stop them.

RW: Now I think I understand. You’re telling me you’re ready if it’s time…

Eloise: Hell no. Nobody’s ever ready. Except maybe those who suffer. Then it’s probably better when it stops. But mostly, I’m talking about you – you get so afraid that you don’t do anything.

RW: Excuse me?

Eloise: Hey, no offense. But you know what I mean. You even get so depressed you’ll be too paralyzed to do anything. Except think about dying. And yet you worry about my suffering.

RW: Are you suffering?

Eloise: Nope. My dignity, a little. And nice change of subject.

RW: Well, that’s not so bad.

Eloise: Again…you are not a cat. Dignity matters more than you’ll ever understand. This is unacceptable. But you’re right – I’m not ready to go just yet. Sometime soon. In the wild, I’d go find a quiet place to lie down, and in a day or two I’d die. We cats can’t live long without eating, and there’s no way I could hunt like this. And you still changed the subject.

RW: That would be hard. Humans don’t do that. Most don’t. Maybe a few.

Eloise: I’m pleased not to be alone in the woods. You’re very warm, and I like hearing your heartbeat. You could sing some more.

RW: Really, I don’t know the words. And it makes me cry too much.

Eloise: Well, crying’s up to you. I’m not crying. I don’t really understand humans and crying.

RW: …I don’t think I can explain it either. I’m crying because you’ll be gone, and you won’t be here, and I won’t see you anymore.

Eloise: Um…okay, chalk it up to unfathomable differences I guess. Cats don’t cry. So, you want to watch Lord of the Rings?

RW: Maybe tomorrow. I mean, it’s already tomorrow, but after I close my eyes for a bit.

Eloise: Go in on the bed, let’s sleep. You’re going to have to help me get up on the bed.

RW: Not a problem…but how will you stay on?

Eloise: Just be still, and I’ll be still. For a while.

RW: You sure? We could stay here.

Eloise: Nah, the floor is hard and cold, and you can’t sleep. I’d rather be warm and soft anyway.

RW: Alright – but I’m still dressed if you need to go to the vet…

Eloise: I’ll let you know.

***

Eloise: You changed the subject you know…earlier…

RW: …and I will again. Go to sleep.

Eloise: You don’t have to be so afraid. After all, at least you know what matters to you.

RW: I do?

Eloise: This does. The time with others. The living with the living. The conversation. “Only connect…” You don’t care so much about things like those in the newspapers, but you live for people. Or, you know, “people”. Like cats. And, die a little for them too, when they go.

RW: Yeah. I worry too much about stupid stuff. “What if” stuff. I try to find a line between planning ahead and fretting, but I never really do. I just fret. Change is scary to me.

Eloise: Meanwhile, there’s a war going on, the religious right is destroying your country and all the freedoms you believe in, and you’ve spent the evening bored off your ass, watching TV, and taking care of a dying cat. I submit your priorities are fucked even more than my brain. You don’t even fret about the real stuff.

RW: I’m not comparing my pain. I know that my hurts are trivial. Work sucked this week. Finances are fucked again. The weather was colder than I like. I’m losing a pet. Boo-fucking-hoo. But they’re what I have to work with. Besides, I do what I can. Just not much that makes a difference.

Eloise: Sing to me once more. It makes a difference to me. Send me off, and think of me happy.

RW: I really don’t want to sing Strawberry Fields anymore. Besides, and this probably isn’t a good time to remind you, but you’ve been deaf for at least 10 months now. I might as well sing you a kitty song.

Eloise: You and your kitty songs. Singing “meow meow meow” instead of the real lyrics doesn’t make it a kitty song. You know you’re going to be doing that for weeks after I’m gone now, don’t you?

RW: Probably. But it will help me remember you. I don’t want to say good bye.

Eloise: Hush. Say it tomorrow – Monday tomorrow, not just a few hours from now. I’m feeling fine being still right here. Let Boo say good-bye when he gets home later. Spend another night with me. I can wait. I’m in no pain. Monday morning, well, I’ll be getting pretty hungry by then.

RW: You’re purring.

Eloise: I’m listening to your heart. You should give it a try once in a while.

RW: You’re a very smart kitty. I love you.

Eloise: Sleep now. No, wait, sing me something. I’ll lie here on your chest, and listen to your heartbeat. I can feel you singing. You can feel my purr. Let me be content for a while.

RW: “Let me take you down, ‘cause you’re going to…strawberry fields…and nothing is real – there’s nothing to get hung about…Strawberry fields forever. Strawberry fields forever. Strawberry fields forever.”

***

Rest in peace, Eloise Sabine, put to final sleep at 2:30 pm today, after a sudden neurological episode in the early morning hours of Sunday, November 11. She was 15 years old, and brought great joy to Boo and me all her life.