Hairspray

Like dutiful husbands everywhere, I often accede to my wife's wishes when it comes to entertainment. Two classic examples from the past weekend: Hairspray and Desperate Housewives.

I had not cared for the original John Waters film, a typically sloppy one-joke enterprise; nor did the prospect of John Travolta in drag or an anorexic Michelle Pheiffer entice. But who can resist a discount neighborhood theater on a Saturday night, the fumes from the overdressed popcorn creating an aphrodisiacal aroma as I hold hands with my honey in the dark?

I enjoyed the music and dance in the film and I heartily endorse its predilection for ample female posteriors. But Travolta was a drag in drag; the music, albeit consistently lively, all sounded the same; the plot was ludicrous even for a musical; and the characters lacked the Waters edginess. Baltimore was barely suggested in an opening cityscape and Travolta's attempts at the local nasal. (Why was he the only one to assume that hideous accent?) At any rate, the 90+ minutes passed pleasantly and I had the satisfaction of pleasing my wife without punishing myself.

The next evening concluded, as many Sundays have, with the latest episode of Desperate Housewives. Nothing is sexier than a suburban housewife, though I have always balked at the sleek slender variety conjured by this show. The first few seasons displayed some cleverness and an unwonted sinister streak for a network series. It was an easy way to share some female humor with my wife while getting in touch with my non-existent feminine side.

However, the plots this season have ventured beyond the absurd, Bree's false pregnancy and Orson's newfound blandness are tiresome, Susan's true pregnancy is even more tiresome, and Dana Delany (whom I adore) is wasted in a role that is thin physically and emotionally. Poor Lynette, the best actress on the show, has been reduced to a cancer poster child. I do like the Edie-Gabby-Carlos triangle, which has some of the wicked eroticism of previous years.

I just don't know if I can sit through another hour (much of it commercials) of this inanity. Sorry, Marla.