Directed by Randal Kleiser. Starring John Travolta, Olivia Newton-John, Stockard Channing, Jeff Conaway, Didi Conn PG cert, Vue, Dublin, 110 min
BACK IN 1978, Randal Kleiser's hit musical was banned outright in East Germany as a fearsome piece of capitalist agitprop. More than three decades on and even avowed enemies of the Great Satan have, most likely, tapped their toes to Summer Nightsor crooned their way through a karaoke rendition of Sandy.
We can't very well hail this brand new sing-a-long print as a revival, for a revival entails a downtime of some sort. Between TV repeats, occasional theatrical reissues, album sales, amateur productions and reality casting shows, Greasehas never had anything like downtime.
If we have never been bored by Grease, it's simply because Greaseis never boring. Watch it a million times and one is still struck by its fabulousness. Has any garment ever been pinker than Stockard Channing's jacket? Has any top screamed butch and out like the black muscle shirts favoured by the T-Birds?
Beneath the kitsch and the goofy high school romance between John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John lies a darker carnal tale of teen pregnancy, peer pressure and “pussy wagons”. Marty (Dinah Manoff) is heard to complain that Vince Fontaine tried to spike her Coke with aspirin in the belief that the concoction would act like a date rape drug.
Like The Simpsonsand other postmodern double-coded delights, Grease sneaks in these ideas only to bat them away in favour of family-friendly, PG-rated entertainment. There's nothing here to scare the horses beyond Betty Rizzo in a bad mood and a mischievous denouement that suggests if you want to get the guy, it helps if you dress like him.
Interested parties and beauty school dropouts may well shrug at the appearance of lyrics along the bottom of the screen. Ha. Like they need to be told.
