"Hairspray" takes place in the early 1960s, when Jackie and Jack were in the White House, when foot-high bouffants were all the rage, when black soul filled white teenagers, and the tensions of the civil rights movement were just beginning to simmer. That's all framework for a movie with Divine and Jerry Stiller as the parents of fat, bubbly Ricki Lake, who winds up on "The Corny Collins Show," an "American Bandstand"-style program, wins the gorgeous guy and shows up the rich bitch daughter of deliciously hateful parents Sonny Bono and Deborah Harry. For many, it is his best film.

It was also a swan song for Harris Glenn Milstead, known to the world as Divine, who died in his sleep from a massive heart attack. His death ended one of the most deliriously attuned partnerships between star and director in the history of pop culture. Divine was indeed the heart of every Waters movie he appeared in, and with his death, Waters continued valiantly, and with great spirit, in the new, vastly more mainstream direction heralded by "Hairspray." Suddenly, or not so suddenly, Waters was cool with the money boys, and provided there were no on-screen blow jobs or other such nastiness, he was given real budgets that reflected his accessibility.

With both "Hairspray" and "Cry-Baby" (1990), Waters was more than playing it safe -- he was being downright cutesy, indulging in his love of the kitsch of '50s and '60s America. But there is so much exuberance in these later movies that it never feels forced; his sweetness feels completely right. And, like Robert Altman, Waters has a great affection for his characters, or the actors -- which, in his early movies, anyway, is basically the same thing. His characters are no longer repulsive, they're endearing. The good faith extends to his actors as well; all of them now look good, as opposed to being made to look deliberately bad (of course now they're well-known actors), and Waters has been indulging his pleasure in having ravishingly pretty boy lead players such as Johnny Depp, Edward Furlong and Stephen Dorff. "Cry-Baby" is a homage to bikers, bad girls and Elvis wannabes, and Depp is sensational in the title role.

Though "Serial Mom" (1994) was a disappointment, it did boast a rather nifty semi-comeback for Kathleen Turner, and one glorious scene in a courtroom where she unnerves her archenemy Mink Stole by opening and closing her legs in a hilarious parody of Sharon Stone in "Basic Instinct." And about the only thing that's naughty about "Pecker" (1999) is the title; Waters was using his notorious name recognition and a slang word to mischievous effect, but little Eddie Furlong's dong is nowhere in sight (as it might have been in Waters' mangy old glory days). Still, if Waters has gotten softer with age and success, he's still true to his overall vision, which has always been the same: art in reverse, as Waters himself called it.

"Cecil B. DeMented," due out this week, stars Dorff in the title role, an insane film director who kidnaps big-time movie star Honey Whitlock (Melanie Griffith) and forces her to be in his movie, an epic called "Raving Beauty." If the movie is half as good as the title, Waters will have another hit of "Hairspray" proportions. But has success spoiled the Prince of Puke? Has he gone soft? He is now comfortably settled in his third decade of filmmaking, the point at which most movie directors go "mature" on us, tackling "big themes" and boring us senseless. Yet the only real evidence of Waters' maturity can be found in still photographs of him directing Griffith, in which he wears half-glasses (the kind your dad might wear). If he is no longer the Pope of Trash, he's at least the unholy father to a new generation of renegade moviemakers -- our perverted papa.

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