Complaining about tackiness in “Cry-Baby” is like begrudging “Avenue Q” its puppets or bellyaching that “Alfred Hitchcock’s The 39 Steps” is suspenseful. Giddy, low-frills subversion sits at the squirmy core of John Waters’s oeuvre, and few things would be in as poor taste as a tasteful adaptation of any film by the self-described “trash auteur.” Mediocrity, however, is another matter, one that no amount of whiz-bang choreography or wily supporting performances can mask.

Among those having a go at adapting Mr. Waters’s sprightly 1990 amalgamation of Elvis Presley vehicles and other 1950s misspent-youth movies are co-librettists Mark O’Donnell and Thomas Meehan, who had far more success with another retro-themed Waters adaptation, “Hairspray.” Both of these shows follow a teenage heroine whose eyes are opened to the societal fault lines of mid-century Baltimore. But while the earlier title filtered this maturation through the lens of racial integration, “Cry-Baby” is content to stay in the shallow end and focus on a standard wrong-side-of-the-tracks tale.

Allison Vernon-Williams (Elizabeth Stanley) finds herself pulling away from her finishing-school background and toward the tormented orphan Wade “Cry-Baby” Walker (James Snyder), the leader of a local gang of hoodlums known as the Drapes. Thus begins a high-energy romp that includes rumbles, make-out sessions, jailhouse boogies, fake pregnancies, and 11th-hour confessions.

This water is never still, and it runs pretty shallow. “Hairspray” used Jerry Mitchell’s inventive choreography to chart the interminglings of race and class; Rob Ashford sets himself a less ambitious goal here, aiming instead to stuff Mark Brokaw’s production with as many gyrating, poodle-skirt-flipping, pompadour-shaking teens as possible. He finds a surprising number of variations on this theme, and his well-rehearsed corps offers a vigorous brio evocative of Michael Kidd’s choreography from the 1950s. Whether the edgy-at-all-costs ethos of Mr. Waters and his cohort would welcome comparisons to the man who made shows such as “Guys and Dolls” and “Li’l Abner” dance is another matter.

More along the desired demographic lines are the “Cry-Baby” songwriters: David Javerbaum and Adam Schlesinger, who bring extensive mainstream-hipster credentials (long stints with “The Daily Show” and the pop band Fountains of Wayne, respectively) to this, their Broadway debut. But rather than supply a jolt of not-too-outsider-energy, they have instead coasted on their magpie skills, tossing out an undistinguished stream of pastiche numbers. The lyrics occasionally have a welcome crispness: Mr. Javerbaum’s political sensibility peeks through with the ultra-patriotic barbershop quartet “Thanks for the Nifty Country!,” and “Baby Baby Baby Baby Baby (Baby Baby)” both mocks and honors the vapidity of early rock. (“Get up here, Allison!” “But … but I don’t know the words!”) The songs themselves, however, are as generic as the lyrics are pointed: It’s the first time I can recall forgetting a show’s melodies before they were even finished.

This blandness extends to Mr. Brokaw’s transitions and Howell Binkley’s atypically gaudy lighting — and, far more significantly, to the show’s leading man. It’s hard to fault someone for falling short of Elvis Presley or Johnny Depp (the original Cry-Baby) in terms of charisma. But Cheyenne Jackson found a modern-day approximation of greaser allure in the 2005 Elvis jukebox musical “All Shook Up”; whatever that show’s failings, you couldn’t take your eyes off him. The kindest thing to be said about Mr. Snyder is that he out-swaggers Max Crumm, the reality-TV-appointed star of the latest “Grease” revival. He provides the requisite hip shakes and rockabilly whoops, and you can’t keep your eyes on him.

It doesn’t help that fellow Drapes such as Chester Gregory III (as a Little Richard wannabe) and “Hairspray” veteran Carly Jibson (as a profoundly pregnant 16-year-old) have an abundance of that indescribable but unmistakable quality that eludes Mr. Snyder. Not far behind them is the winning Ms. Stanley, who locates the warmth as well as the wink in her far less flashy role.

The adult characters from the film have largely been shown the door, as stage technology has yet to successfully replicate the likes of Iggy Pop and Patricia Hearst. Richard Poe acquits himself reasonably well as the blustery judge, and Harriet Harris works very hard as Allison’s unfailingly appropriate grandmother, using her usual vocal curlicues and expert timing to turn lumps of comedic coal — such as “Rule One in etiquette — no killing!” — into chunks of at least cubic zirconia.

It is unreasonable to expect or even want John Waters’s more outré efforts to reach Broadway: Odorama and coprophagy (two of his more infamous early plot points) have their place, I suppose, but I’m more than willing to have the Marquis Theatre remain not that place. Still, only once does “Cry-Baby” crackle with Mr. Waters’s signature brand of illicit camp. It comes near the end of Act 1, when a would-be Drape named Lenora (Alli Mauzey) takes the stage for a song of unrequited love — and peels off her elbow-length gloves to show “CRY” carved into one forearm and “BABY” into the other. Yes, self-mutilation has now joined the pantheon of musical-theater sight gags. For the first and only time in this over-caffeinated and under-motivated show, the audience doesn’t know whether to gasp or giggle.

Open run (1535 Broadway at 45th Street, 212-307-4100).