Hairspray (1988)

Hairspray (1988) is the rare John Waters film that feels like a sugar-rush pop song with a real pulse underneath it—bright, brassy, and surprisingly big-hearted without ever losing its wicked sense of fun. It drops you into a candy-colored Baltimore where dance-floor dreams, teen romance, and TV-pageant absurdity collide, and then it uses that bubbly energy to poke at hypocrisy and segregation with sharp satire and a grin. Ricki Lake is wonderfully game as Tracy, and the whole cast leans into the camp with such conviction that the movie becomes infectious, like you can’t help but tap along even as it bites. It’s not for viewers allergic to deliberately over-the-top taste and rough-edged Waters humor, but if you’re in the mood for a comedy that’s both gleefully trashy and oddly uplifting, this one earns its hairspray halo.

John Waters’ Hairspray (1988) is trying to mash up a bubbly teen dance-show fantasy with a pointed, pro-integration message, filtered through his deliberately trashy, cartoonish sensibility. If you’re expecting the polished, feel-good Broadway-style version, this one can feel clumsy and blunt, with broad characters and satire that hits you with a megaphone rather than a wink. The humor is weird, campy, and sometimes abrasive, and the social commentary includes racist language and over-the-top scenes that won’t land for everyone. That said, it’s got genuine energy, a game cast (Divine in particular), and a scrappy charm that works if you’re on its wavelength and don’t mind messy storytelling in exchange for attitude.