rated PG

Let’s face it. Musicals aren’t for everyone. That said, watching “Hairspray,” one recalls a line from the 1994 Beethoven bio “Immortal Beloved.” Gary Oldman, in the character of the infamous Ludwig Van, states, “It is the power of music to carry one directly into the mental state of the composer. The listener has no choice. It is like hypnotism.” “Hairspray,” it would seem, perfectly illustrates this concept. By the middle of the very first number, “Good Morning Baltimore,” in which creamy little butterball Tracy Turnblad throws off her covers and belts out her joy for life while gaily bouncing through the filthy rat infested streets of her 1960s hometown (watch for creator John Waters’ perfectly executed cameo), toes inexplicably begin to tap and fingers involuntarily start to snap. Her spunky effervescence is simply infectious.

True to the “Hairspray” tradition, the lead role is always cast with a newcomer, and her mom is always played by a man. Nicole Blonsky, in her debut, is a perfect fit as the bubbly, overflowing bobby-soxer Tracy. She soundly trumps the young Ricki Lake’s previous performance in the 1988 non-musical version. For a kid her age, she’s got a set of vocal cords that just soar, and for a kid her size, she’s got dance moves to rival John Travolta.

Which brings us to John Travolta. Acting under heavy padding as Tracy’s introverted, over-sized mom Edna, his performance and freaky attempt at a mousy Baltimore accent never quite rise above the curiosity of his prosthetics. But with Travolta’s history, he’s an inspired choice to take the role. When the character finally does break out, even hefting the pounds of latex, his moves quote directly from his work in “Grease,” and he, er she, really rips it up when the chips are down.

Unlike many recent Broadway crossovers (we’re looking at you, “Chicago”), this musical doesn’t take itself seriously for even one moment. Tracy just wants to dance on the Corny Collins show—the local TV station’s answer to “American Bandstand.” Predominantly a bleach-white affair, with one token “negro day” a month, the station manager (Michelle Pfeiffer, at her iciest) flatly refuses to allow anything progressive or diverse on the air. Her abstinence is made painfully clear at an audition for the show, when Tracy is summarily shunned simply for her rotund appearance. The narrative here could easily plow into some potentially heavy terrain—self doubt, racial inequity and oppression of all things “different.” But whenever these themes come a-knockin’, the story merrily sidesteps any pretense to actual drama and just keeps on singing.

Starting out with a few tunes that nearly out do-wop their do-wop inspirations, as the black characters are introduced, the tone turns into a positively southern Baptist celebration of the power of music for unity and strength. Like the “Blues Brothers” scene when Jake sees the light and proceeds to back-flip his way down the aisle to join James Brown’s flock, these numbers lift the spirit, spread the joy and elicit participation. It’s actually quite difficult not to sing along in the theater when these guys get going.

Though populated with a sterling cast of both old favorites like Christopher Walken (if you’ve forgotten Walken’s “Pennies from Heaven” days, watch Fat Boy Slim’s “Weapon of Choice” video), and bright, talented young newcomers (Elijah Kelley as Seaweed simply runs off with every scene he’s in), the real star here has to be director Adam Shankman. His handful of previous successes in film have all been due to his talent for choreography, including work on “Boogie Nights” and “Buffy the Vampire Slayer.”  Shankman’s few straight directing jobs have yielded sad to terrible results (“Wedding Planner,” “The Pacifier”). With Hairspray, he seems to have finally found his niche, and he pulls out all the stops. The music wails, the colors pop, and dancers fly. After the credits roll, on your way back to the car, you’ll be jingling your keys whether you mean to or not.