I just got back from seeing Hairspray. Oh, my good friends who are reading this, I can see you bracing yourself from over here. Please unclench!

[Explanation: I am somewhat notorious for hating almost every movie I see. However, there appears to be a Hambox de-curmudgeonization trend of late. I am getting older and less harshly judgmental of the moving image, I guess. Perhaps it has been the several years’ vacation from forced viewing of many experimental films while working for an indie film organization. Plus, I hardly ever go to the movies and only rent things from Netflix that my Netflix friends recommend to me. See? See how much I’ve softened?]

What was the curmudgeon saying? Oh yes. Hairspray. I loved it. Loved loved loved it. Dazzling! Bubbly! Totally escapist! I giggled nonstop whilst elbowing Jeff and shoveling popcorn in my mouth. I even got teary, I was that overcome with sheer delight.

It goes beyond the fact I’m a musical geek. And beyond the giddy, summery feeling of impulsively going to a matinee with pals.

I felt just as I did when I saw John Waters’s original version way back when (though the two films are different beasts). The delight of seeing something so sexy and offbeat and sly and fun and cool — the colors, the sounds, the shapes, that dancing — it was as though a very very good drug was being painted directly on the hard-wired happy centers of my brain.

I could feel such a connection to the 1988 me, almost as though the spirit of that younger, weirder Becky was co-inhabiting my body. Like, through the reaction to the movies, I was validated for who I was then and who I turned out to be. And all so bittersweet, too — things turned out so differently for me, for all of us, than the dream presented in this confection.

Can you tell I’m still high? Listen to this monumental hyperbole! Good lord, I’m going to regret hitting “Publish.” But publish this post I will. While me and vintage-me continue to catch up, I send out turquoise-and-pink beribboned kisses to all the boys and girls.

PS: Okay, it wasn’t perfect:

• Only John Travolta attempted a Baltimore accent; why didn’t anyone else?
• Not enough eyeglasses. If you see a yearbook from that era, you’d know.
• Queen Latifah’s necklace was distracting, no?
• I won’t spoil, but: Tracy’s transformation at the end was a little off, year-wise. John W.’s Tracy did it better.
• I missed the beatniks.
• Maybe one song too many?
• I told you! I’m like that!

john_waters.jpg, originally uploaded by arimoore. Thanks for letting me use it!