They say the neon lights are bright on Broadway. But, as The Drifters told us long ago, looking at them just gives me the blues. The reason? More than six years after plucky Tracy Turnblad first sang, “Good Morning, Baltimore,” the curtain’s about to descend for the last time on “Hairspray.”
That ode to 1950s Bawlamer, and the Buddy Deane Show, and an awkward America trying to come to terms with the notion of black kids and white kids daring to dance on the same television program, will turn out the lights in January, according to Variety, the show biz bible.
The paper reported the other day that cast members have been told the final performance at New York’s Neil Simon Theater will be Jan. 18 — and that Harvey Fierstein, who won a Tony for his cross-dressing performance as Edna Turnblad, will return to the role in November and stay for the final couple of months.
So, farewell to John Waters’ original brainchild, and farewell to a show that won Tonys for musical, book, score, direction, lead actress, lead actor, featured actor and costumes. Farewell to the show that, as Variety reported, recouped its original $10.5 million investment in less than nine months and has now grossed roughly $245 million.
And farewell to the Broadway production that inspired touring companies across America and England, and led to the hit movie with John Travolta, Queen Latifah, Michelle Pfeiffer and Christopher Walken.
And farewell to the show that produced a swelling of the heart for Baltimoreans who heard Tracy Turnblad open the show every night by belting out:
“I love you Baltimore/Every day’s like an open door/Every night is a fantasy/Every sound’s like a symphony.”
Of course, this being John Waters country, and the songwriters Marc Shaiman and Scott Wittman being true to Waters’ great demented sense of humor, the song also contained these lines:
“Good morning, Baltimore/There’s the flasher who lives next door/There’s the bum on his barroom stool/They wish me luck on my way to school.”
Which, in its way, is the essence of John Waters’ vision: There’s value in everyone in this world, including (and maybe especially) the apparent losers. Maybe a guy opens his raincoat inappropriately. Maybe a guy drinks excessively. But they’re both wishing Tracy a good day — and she’s taking what little they have to offer as her ray of optimism.
And optimism’s what “Hairspray” brought to an ailing Broadway when the show opened in the shadow of the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks. It was August, 2002, and New York was still a city in mourning. Then “Hairspray” arrived, full of great notices from its road tryouts, and full of hilarious songs and marvelous dancing — and a message, veiled in typical Waters comedy, about life’s underdogs and outcasts slogging through to triumph.
For most of its six-year run, “Hairspray” did marvelous business. It was one of the few properties ever to start as a movie (the original, non-musical Waters version), move to the stage, and back to movie again.
But the film version ultimately drained some of the financial life out of the Broadway production. For the past year, Variety reports, the show’s played to an average of 62 percent capacity, while touring companies have drawn up-and-down audiences.
But it’s been fun while it’s lasted.
For Baltimoreans of a certain generation, it’s brought back memories of a time when those such as Perry Como and Patti Page were yielding to the rock-and-roll Earth force of Chuck Berry and Elvis, and skirts were edging toward the bottom of knee caps, and thousands of teens raced home from school every day to catch the latest music on the Buddy Deane dance program.
But it was also a time when the country was finally coming face to face with its promise of racial equality — and had to face up to it, sometimes in the most painful public settings.
It was Waters’ inspiration to take the pain and turn it into something of great affection, and great healing. He knew this story wasn’t about villains, it was the changing of a culture. Buddy Deane was OK with letting the kids dance together — he was OK with anything that made the show successful.
The kids had no problems with dancing together — but their parents, products of changing times, didn’t know what to make of it, and neither did nervous management on Television Hill. And so, rather than face the problem, they simply canceled the program.
This time around, it’s not race that’s bringing down the curtain. It’s money. But there’s also the sense of a job well done, and a story well told, and a message delivered with style, and affection, and with great healing humor.
