Directed and choreographed by Adam Shankman

Written by Leslie Dixon

Starring: Nikki Blonsky, John Travolta, Michelle Pfeiffer and Christopher Walken

117 min. in CinemaScope

Given the amount of dirty looks this column has cast toward contemporary Hollywood musicals over the past two years, it’s a wonder I even agreed to review Hairspray.

The 1988 version marked a turning point in director John Waters’ career. He went from giving us an unrated Divine dinner of dog shit to a PG studio film aimed at Middle America. As a filmmaker, John Waters is nothing without shock.

But so much has mortified and offended audiences since Pink Flamingos first hit the midnight circuit in 1972. Nowadays, fart humor has become de rigeur even in Disney films. When A Dirty Shame tried to return Waters to his rancid, ratings-bucking ways, he could barely muster enough filth to earn an NC-17.

Waters is the lecherous pervert with the Little Richard mustache, who over the years has become a corporate spokesperson for armchair degenerates across America. (He appears briefly in the remake as a flasher, a concept that went out with Arte Johnson and Laugh In.) Perhaps the most shocking development in the director’s professional career was the transformation of one of his films into a mainstream Broadway musical. Even more outrageous, it was such a smash that it spawned another Hollywood rendition.

It is precisely because Waters sold out that I found much to abhor in his waste-free original. To make matters worse, as a director he ranks slightly above Kevin Smith and William Beaudine. No one in their right mind has ever attended a Waters show in search of mise-en-scene or other forms of cinematic enlightenment.

Add to all of this the promise of another big name actor on the skids (John Travolta playing drag in a fat suit), and you may begin to understand my trepidation. But after suffering through Moulin Rouge, Chicago, Rent and Dream Girls, it is once again safe to see a Hollywood musical.

Big girl Tracy Turnblad (newcomer Nikki Blonski) is in constant motion: She’s a Jell-O mold with a wave machine trapped inside. It’s 1962, and her dream is to mingle with the beautiful people by becoming a regular cast member on The Corny Collins Show, a daily, televised dance party that features dangerous race music for clean-cut white teenagers.

Her corpulent mother Edna (Travolta) wants to shelter her baby from the evils of the world. At least Edna practices what she preaches. Mom hasn’t set foot out of the house since the ’50s. Given a chance to audition for Corny (James Marsden), Tracy lands a spot on the show and over night becomes its biggest star, in more ways than one.

While in detention, Tracy mingles with minorities, and it isn’t long before she’s championing racial equality and trying to integrate the bandstand. Even her best friend Penny Pingleton (the bubbly, perfectly cast Amanda Bynes) senses that it won’t be long before the cherry lollipop in her mouth is replaced with a big black penis.

The first thing to catch the viewer’s eye is the strategy that went into planning each shot, so the musical numbers would seamlessly cut together. This isn’t the Moulin Rouge Mixmaster approach to editing, nor does director/choreographer Adam Shankman incessantly keep his camera in close. With the exception of Bob Fosse, most Broadway choreographers don’t make an easy transition to Hollywood director. (Take his directing partner Stanley Donen out of the equation and you have every right to decline Gene Kelly’s Invitation to the Dance.) This is one of those rare instances where a choreographer envisions the way his scenes will play on the screen, not the stage.

At times, the period décor is responsible for as many laughs as the actors. From mechanical Charlie Weaver bartenders to a smoke-filled teacher’s lounge, production designer David Gropman works overtime to give the film its perfect ’60s flavor. Bojan Bazelli’s bright, shadow-less, candy-colored cinematography adds just the right amount of bounce that prohibits the proceedings from becoming dry and listless.

The second act wilts, due in large part to a well-intentioned civil rights subplot that seems out of place in this satirical environment. Waters’ tongue was planted firmly in his cheek when he tried to add a bit of social significance to his version. Queen Latifah parading her sisters through the streets of Baltimore bears an uncomfortable resemblance to Dream Girls.

The cast is wonderful. Ms. Blonski is a suitable Ricki Lake clone, a pudgy Connie Francis always poised to wow a crowd. Michelle Pfeiffer receives some of the film’s biggest laughs as the evil station manager bent on getting Tracy out and her daughter (Brittany Snow) in. As Baltimore’s answer to Dick Clark, James Marsden, with his Pepsodent smile and patented insincere sincerity, shows an unexpected flair for light comedy.

In addition to Mr. Waters, several participants from the original version show up to varying degrees of effectiveness. Jerry Stiller is a very funny man, but even he can’t out-shout his sportcoat. You will have to look quickly for Ricki Lake who pops up unheralded as a talent agent.

With the exception of an overly affected accent, Travolta does fine. For some reason this guy is fated to keep working. He has more lives than a hundred-year-old tabby. There’s even an anachronistic nod to Pulp Fiction, presumably thrown in so the younger demographic, lacking a proper historical perspective, will get at least one of the in-jokes.

Hairspray is a standout among this summer’s dumper crop of movies. As much as I hate to say it about anything related to John Waters, this is a perfect film to take the kids to, especially if they’ve already been exposed to Divine getting raped by a lobster in Multiple Maniacs.

Directed by Dennis Dugan

Written by Barry Fanaro, Alexander Payne and Jim Taylor

Starring: Adam Sandler, Kevin James, Jessica Biel and Dan Aykroyd

110 min.

The premise makes this sound like an American remake of a decade-old French comedy. Chuck (Adam Sandler) and Larry (Ralph Kramden wannabe Kevin James), two sworn heterosexuals, agree to pass as lovers in order for recently widowed Larry to collect domestic partner benefits.

Expectations were piqued higher than usual for a Sandler vehicle, particularly one directed by his stalwart lackey Dennis Dugan. The credits boasted the Academy Award-winning writers behind the runaway hit comedy Sideways (plus Barry Fanaro, former producer of “The Golden Girls”). Instead of an appealing buddy picture, this time they deliver an appalling butt-buddy comedy.

The writing conference probably went something like this: Three straight guys sat around a table jotting down every homophobic cliché they could recall from grade school. Sprinkle in a few pleas for tolerance and, in order to give it the “Sandler touch,” equal doses of maudlin sentimentality and brutal fisticuffs.

It must instantly be established that Sandler’s character doesn’t go that route. First off, he’s a New York City fireman, a profession that, in the wake of their 9/11 heroics, galvanizes generations of future firefighters to come. According to Chuck and Larry, there isn’t a more hetero profession in the entire world than that of a fireman.

Surely a career that calls for a bunch of men to sleep together in one room, wear vulcanized rubber boots, squirt their hoses and slide down long, sleek poles must produce a few gay recruits.

When Larry first broaches the subject of domestic partnership with his friend, Chuck’s immediate response is, “You mean faggots?” None of that homo stuff for Chuck, who just happens to have twin sisters and a gaggle of Asian Hooters babes fighting over him.

Larry’s young son Eric (Cole Morgen) has dad a bit worried. He prefers musical theater over little league, something Chuck takes great delight in humiliating the boy over. When a city inspector (Steve Buscemi), eager to prove their relationship a fraud, goes through the couple’s trash, the boys decide they need to gay up their garbage. Chuck glances at Eric and jokes, “Why not throw him in?” Acceptance is only acceptable in small doses and should never get in the way of a cheap laugh.

With big name celebrities lining up for parts in his films, Sandler has become somewhat of a low-rent Woody Allen. To further underscore Chuck’s virility, Jessica Biel, People magazine’s Sexiest Woman Alive, is cast as the love interest. Our first glimpse of Biel comes via the fabled Frankenstein tilt that starts on her feet and pans up.

For a character that’s presented as a smart, independent, extremely successful counselor, why is it that she can’t see through the couple’s hackneyed mincing and unending stream of dick jokes? Cook them sweet or cook them sour, according to this film women are all dumb broads.

Ving Rhames appearing strong, silent and distant in reel one meant only one thing: by reel four he’d be out of the closet and on Chuck and Larry’s side. Wait ’til you see the marriage of (plot) convenience that he ends up in.

Chuck and Larry’s wedding is presided over by a buck-toothed Asian (a heavily made up Rob Schneider) who gets laughs by saying “ling” instead of “ring.” Instead of kissing the groom Chuck decks both Larry and the minister.

The same fate befalls a gay bashing priest spewing hatred through a megaphone outside a gay bar. Instead of engaging him in a pointed verbal exchange or, better yet, walking away, Chuck knocks him to the ground.

No matter how feeble it is, the screenwriters are obviously aiming at a plea for racial tolerance. It’s a Happy Madison production, and in the end, Sandler wins out. As in so many of his films, the true message is that everything in life can be settled with a square right to the jaw.

Initially, the thought of decking Sandler came to mind, but that would make me no better than he. In reality, the ones that really need a sound thrashing are those who awarded this $40 million on opening weekend.