Hola all. Massawyrm here.

Remember that early trailer Pixar did for Ratatouille, where Remy's brother walks up and says "You know, if you can kind of muscle your way past the gag reflex, a whole world of possibilities open up for you." Nothing could sum up my experience with Hairspray any tighter than that. The first ten, maybe fifteen minutes of this were dreadful – everything I was afraid this film was going to be. You see, it was a MUSICAL.

Now I knew this was a musical going in, but this wasn't a musical. This was a MUSICAL. The movie opens up with the main character waking up and singing a song. About how great it is. To wake up. In Baltimore. Oh for fucks sake, I cried out what have I done? The morbid curiosity of Travolta in drag had drug me headlong into the deepest, darkest, gayest level of hell.

In very short order, Hairspray did its best to convince me that it was not a movie for me. All my optimism had been drained out my man parts and I sat there a terrified husk of flesh wishing to god we weren't only five minutes in. But we were. I felt like Stellan Skarsgard in The Hunt for Red October before his own torpedo turned back on him. "You arrogant ass. You've killed us," snidely quipped the voice in my head. So I buckled down, grit my teeth and prepared for that torpedo to slam into my backside. For, like, an hour and a half.

And then a funny thing happened. Hairspray changed its mind. It didn't want me to hate it. It wanted me to like it. And it tried really, really hard to convince me. It threw an amazing cast at me, wrapped in a delicious kitsch and a bizarre sense of irreverence that seemed terribly out of place for the story and sense of optimism it had. There's quite a bit of humor in here pertaining to the primary plot element, that of a town on the verge of racial tensions and protests, and makes light of it. Deliberately. And it's hilarious. Everyone is a stereotype. And it works.

The only problem is all of the god damned singing. Seriously. Every time a song kicked in, I forgot how much fun I was having and began to get bored. Now, I've said this before and it bears repeating. I do not like musicals. When I said my love of Dreamgirls was a fluke, I meant it. The songs in this were certainly executed well enough, and certain songs shared the rest of the film's sense of humor, but for the most part they were your typical, Broadway style musical numbers that lacked the inspiration to draw me into them.

And thus is the dichotomy of this movie. Every scene with spoken dialog, every bit of physical comedy, pretty much every unsung moment is pure gold. I cannot stress how incredible this cast is and what an amazing job they all do. Actors and actresses who may never have impressed you before will finally do so now. James "Gay Cyclops" Marsden is a fucking man-god in this. If his X-Men work never wowed you (like me) or his role in Superman Returns didn't make you want to watch anything and everything he was ever in, then his role as the constantly smirking dance show host Corny Collins will. He provides sudden looks and rapid fire dialog that ratchets up the quality of the film every time he manages to get screentime.

And for those who have yet to buy into the adorable and very finely honed physical comedy of Amanda Bynes, this is the movie that will sell you on her. Her expressions, faint gags and overall performance steal the show time and again. She gets some of the biggest laughs in the movie. Watching her play off of the always-brilliant Allison Janney is one of the movies greatest gifts to its audience.

Then all of the folks you would expect to at least be solid turn in their very best instead. Queen Latifah, Christopher Walken, Michelle Pfeiffer. All at the very top of their game. But the real story, and why many of you may have clicked on this review to begin with, is John Travolta. I refuse to believe that there is a man under all that makeup. No. I refuse. Not because of some weird, talkbacker-like sense of homophobia; but rather because there were times that I actually completely forgot that it was John Travolta under there. Sure, sometimes you can't help but think Jesus, that's John Travolta. But other times you totally buy into the illusion that this is Edna Turnblad, overweight shut in married to Christopher Walken, who is, as always, Christopher Walken. And when those two sing a beautiful, heartfelt love song to one another…well, that's about as good as the movie gets. It's both uproarious and incredibly sweet. You really believe that Christopher Walken wants to take Travolta upstairs for a little bit of the stiff and pointy.

Look, like I said. I hate Musicals. But I couldn't help but like this. There was a moment when the film stooped to an even lower, politically incorrect stereotype, and I gave in. I surrendered. Fine Hairspray, you win. I like you. Okay? I like you. I even enjoyed your final, almost-everyone-gets-a-happy-ending number. The credits began to roll and the audience applauded. They fucking applauded. That's odd enough for patrons at a pre-screening round these parts, but the critics were applauding with them as well. Folks who normally don't give into a film like this.

This is this summer's big surprise. I'm not going to go out on a limb and recommend this to folks who don't like musicals – but as I'm right there with you, I won't caution you away from it either. But if you actually like musicals, or, you know, are a straight up admitted man poker like Herr Knowles – then you're gonna love the bejesus out of this thing and you should run, not walk, to the nearest theatre playing it.

I really liked this. While I'm not going to run out and see it again right away, I would watch it on DVD and skip ahead anytime the singing got too tedious for me. But I wouldn't skip past a single moment of dialog. Seriously folks, it's pretty stellar stuff. Highly Recommended to anyone who enjoys musicals.

Until next time friends, smoke ‘em if ya got ‘em.

Massawyrm

Not enough sarcastic homophobic humor for you? E-mail me here so I can personally call you a faggot or some other inappropriate euphemism for your sexuality, tailored just for your fruity little ass there, velvet britches.