The Return of Jesus

I always knew he'd come back.

Although I never expected him to have assembled the oddest cast in musical theatre history. Alas, I haven't seen the most recent arena spectacular of Jesus Christ Superstar. From the reviews I understand that they've brought it up to date with design references to Guantanamo prison camps and the Occupy movement (or People in Tents, as I like to think of it).

I'm not sure that's such a wise thing. For my money, Jesus Christ Superstar's aim is higher than the politics of the day. It is more abstract, more philosophical.

That's why I've always been a fan of the sparse and spartan 1971 film which strips it down to the story's core. And the more I think about this very odd film of this very odd musical, the more important a musical I think it is. Not important in relation to its place in the history of musicals, although as a rock album musical and the first big Rice-Lloyd-Webber success, that place is not insignificant. Not even in terms of the skill with which it is written, although there is plenty to admire in the score.

No, it is the idea that still amazes me. In fact I have come to the conclusion that the idea at the heart of this musical is greater than even its authors realised. And that's a very curious thing to think.

So here is my very curious review.

The 1971 film of Jesus Christ Superstar is an odd musical. Number one, it is a film musical with a rock score and rock musicals are a minority of the genre. Rock music tends to be dramatic in the noisy-flashy-golly-goshy sense of the word and rather less use when it comes to the old-fashioned plot-and-character sense. Number two, the film was shot entirely on location in Israel rather than on a sound stage. The dusty-white sands and Mediterranean skies give the film a distinctly distinctive look. Number three, it is the only film musical with a Pharisaic High Priest dressed in jeans and a square metal breastplate resembling Darth Vader’s control panel with an inflated dustbin liner for a hat. Odd for the Son of God should have been the strapline.

Despite being cheaply made and roughly cut, this odd film manages to get to the heart of its material. And bin liners aside, what on earth is Jesus Christ Superstar all about? Well, as Sir Tim Rice or Lord Lloyd Webber might say if asked why they support the government: the clue’s in the title. It is the story of the Passion understood through the idea of celebrity. It’s an idea that could easily have been turned into a campy bit of fluff: I’m the Messiah, Get Me Out Of Here!. But the two young authors, ambitious and pre-ennobled, had the temerity to take the idea seriously. In doing so they married the most important story in our history to the most important idea of the twentieth century; not celebrity as such, but the idea of the Self (it’s a big idea, hence the capital). 

This idea of the Self recurs throughout the show. Mary Magdalene turns her muddled feelings for Jesus into a very twentieth-century psychobabbly self-examination: 

“I’ve been changed, yes really changed 

In these past few days when I’ve seen myself 

I seem like someone else” 

The gentle tune gives way to a more urgent, unsettled middle section climaxing with an abrupt out-of-key C major chord: 

“I never thought I’d come to this 

What’s it all about?” 

What indeed, Alfie? Well, it’s mainly about her. Jesus discomfits her sense of self. 

This discomfiture is a reaction to Jesus’ own turmoil over his conflicting identities: the public teacher and the private man lost in a divine delusion. This public/private conflict is neatly captured in the triumphant entry to Jerusalem. The crowds sing the truth without even knowing it: 

“Hey, JC, JC Won’t you die for me?” 

On the surface it’s a palm-waving fanfare but underneath the harmonies are restlessly shifting all over the place. The camera freezes on the word ‘die’ and momentarily captures Jesus’ expression of fear. It’s a simple but effective technique. In public Jesus acknowledges the crowds; in private he knows that the mob will turn. Judas knows too. Ironically it is the great betrayer who sees clearly what others can’t. And it drives him mad. Although, to be fair, he’s pretty screwy from the outset. His introductory song, “Heaven on their Minds”, is full of jittery guitar riffs, synchopations and cynical lyrics. All of which contrasts with the cosy and comfortable hymn of the other disciples in “The Last Supper”. More importantly it is through Judas that we, the audience, first understand the conflict within Jesus. 

These two selves, the public and the private, are a familiar part of the modern celebrity landscape. They reflect the different identities in all of us, how we appear to others and who we really are. In the old days celebrities would maintain a distance between their public and private lives. Nowadays they conflate the two. We’ve become used to the idea that we have to go behind the public image to get to the Real Person (more capitals, another big idea). 

And this is where Jesus Christ Superstar goes beyond most musicals, indeed most modern stories. Jesus first destroys the public image by going ape at the Temple traders in what must be one of the few examples of genuine rock recitative. 

“My temple should be a house of prayer 

But you have made it a den of thieves 

Get out! Get ooooooout!"   

That’s fine. Destroy your popular public image. But then, incomprehensibly to everyone around him, the ultimate Superstar must kill the Real Person too: “To conquer death, you only have to die, you only have to die”.   

In a day and age when stories so often celebrate the self-realisation of the individual, this is shocking. In a culture of self-help, me-time, and a because-you’re-worth-it celebration of the self, it is anathema. The climactic sequence of the film sees the ghost of Judas pouring out his incomprehension, mockery and scorn, intercut with Jesus carrying the cross of his own crucifixion: 

“Jesus Christ Superstar 

Do you think you’re what they say you are?” 

He speaks for us all. It is the perfect anthem for a century of the Self.

Good, Good,Good NetVibrations

For those of a webby bent, I have created a NetVibes page on musical theatre in the UK.

NetVibes is basically a start-up page that allows you to quickly monitor a number of updated websites such as blogs, news sites and social media.

Setting up a basic account is also free.

Very smart.

How Not To Like Musicals

Cultural guru Bryan Appleyard demonstrates how not to like musicals based on less-than-pleasing experiences of Starlight Express, Phantom of the Opera and a Sondheim show:

As intellectually challenging as a Moonpig card and as aesthetically satisfying as cat litter, these shows left me baffled. Why would anybody want to see such nonsense? In the case of Sondheim – the easily shocked should look away now – I concluded he wasn’t very good.

Can I look now?

In the end, I suppose, musicals are, to some, restful. They provide – sometimes – nice tunes and consoling sentiments as well as lots of expensive stage effects. Fair enough. I suppose.

Phew. He is, of course, wrong. But that's OK as he does tend to be right about everything else in life and he does find one exception in The Book of Mormon.

Although he fails to credit Robert Lopez as co-author along with the South Park fellas, Matt Stone and Trey Parker (by the way, how often is this going to happen in the forthcoming reviews?), his analysis is spot on:

Neither Mormonism nor religion is the prime target, parochialism is the heart of the matter...They [Trey and Parker] do not, however, resort to the helpless, postmodern shrug; rather, they draw consolation from the fact that, adrift we may be, but at least we are all in the same boat. And what do we do to pass the time? We tell stories.

However absurd Mormon parochialism appears to the outsider, it is a story to live by and we all need one of those.

How to Handle a Mormon

A letter to Christianity magazine in reply to this article by culture columnist Martin Saunders:

Martin Saunders asks if we should ignore, embrace or campaign against the new musical The Book of Mormon. Well, if you’re of a sensitive disposition or under the age of 15, I’d say ignore it. For everyone else, embrace it. 

Yes, the songs are potty-mouthed and profane. But they’re also very, very funny. Yes, there are pot shots at religion and the wackier Mormon beliefs. But we still end up rooting for the Mormon characters. 

Christians needn’t judge the musical with a blasphemy-ometer but as a piece of theatre. The Book of Mormon is quite simply a spiritual whoopee cushion of a show.

It'll be interesting to see if The Book of Mormon gets the same treatment as Jerry Springer with fringe Christian groups (well, group) protesting outside of theatres.

I suspect not. For one thing, the show is technically aimed at Mormons rather than Christianity in general. And the type of Christians who protest outside of theatres are unlikely to put any effort into defending Mormonism as a proper form of Christianity.

For another and more important thing, The Book of Mormon has a bucket-load more heart than Jerry Springer. Even though the profanity per minute rate is probably the same in both shows, Jerry Springer was an altogether colder and more cynical affair, whereas the Book of Mormon, despite everything, is oddly warm and sentimental. This will count for something when it comes to religious reaction.

My general prediction for the show is that there may be a few angry letters but no significant campaigns. The critics will love it and it'll find an audience for a decent West End run. But if it does go on tour, it'll die on road. Every show has its limits.

A Professor Professes

Apologies for the hiatus.

Funnily enough the world has continued to spin in my absence and MusicalTalk has continued its fine work with an interview with Professor Robert Gordon. And he has a theory or two.

Musical comedy: we started it

Basically the Americans often claim musical comedy as their own. They invented it, they perfected it. Well, it ain't necessarily so, says the Good Prof. In fact the musical comedy is a British thing, starting with Gilbert and Sullivan and continuing via the Princess theatre musicals of Guy Bolton and PG Wodehouse.

So not only did we give them classical liberalism and the philosophical underpinning of the Founding Fathers, we're also claiming Pal Joey. All of which explains why the Yanks are a bit miffed and why Broadway critics can get a bit snarky when it comes to British musicals.

Well I've looked at the G&S influence before. Now I'm not denying that it's there, only that it's not really what's important. The Good Prof cites the patter songs in the Gershwins' Of Thee I Sing. But the patter songs aren't really what we think of when we think of Gershwin. A Gershwin song is highbrow slang, blue notes and energizing syncopation, all of which are fairly non-Gilbertian and non-Sullivanian.

The Princess musicals may make a better case. I can't say I know much about 'em. But it's odd that, if they are such significant shows, that they are so little-known. Then again, significance is not always the same thing as enduring appeal.

Advancing it Backwards

No, not the plot of Merrily We Roll Along.

Instead the discussion turned to whether the newer Broadway shows - The Producers, Avenue Q, Hairspray, The Book of Mormon - represent a new kind of musical comedy. Not really, says the Good Prof. Critics have over-emphasized their innovations but, in truth, these are old-fashioned shows.

Couldn't agree more. Structurally they follow most of the conventions (two acts, a romantic plot) and musically they tend to hark back to old song styles. Nothing wrong with that.

Where they do innovate is in the choice of subject matter. Part of the joke of these shows is the clash between subject and form: high-kicking Nazis and cheery songs about racism. These shows play on the conventions of musical comedy and, in doing so, need to maintain some of the conventions themselves. You could say that they are advancing the form backwards.

Is Billy Elliot the Greatest British Musical Ever?

Not a bad choice.

But I wouldn't agree with the Good Prof's reasons which are:

(1) that the events of the Miners' Strike still resonate in people's memories
(2) because it's about a boy wanting to dance, this justifies the story being told as a musical

I'd say that (1) won't be true for everyone. It's not the vividness of audience members' memories that makes the show work but the convincing way in which the authors have portrayed the tension and atmosphere of the miners' community. On (2) I'd agree that every musical needs a justification for being a musical. But if musicals can only be justified if they are about dancing (or, presumably, singing) then we're seriously limiting their scope.

So what is the greatest British musical ever? Oliver! is the obvious choice but personally I'd plump for Jesus Christ Superstar. In fact it may well be the greatest musical ever.

Don't tell the Americans.

Felines, Nothing More Than Felines

A wee comment left at Chris Caggiano's blog. In a post about overrated musicals he asks his students to burrow down and figure out what's "wrong" with some well-known shows. It seems that Cats proves to be one of the trickier assignments:

"I've only ever had one student who came close to capturing what is really wrong with Cats. She focused on the fact that Andrew Lloyd Webber stuck too close to the original T.S. Eliot poems, which are mostly written in the third person. As a result, we rarely hear any of the cats singing about themselves, rather we hear about them from a third party. So, we never develop a bond with anyone on-stage, with the exception of Grizabella, who sings one of the few songs in the show that wasn't based directly on one of Eliot's poems. Pretty savvy, huh?"

This is not im-paws-able. But allow me to throw my penny into the kitty.

I'm not sure that this third person thing is the problem. Cats is a series of character portraits, not characters. As such we're not being asked to develop a bond with the characters so much as delight in the imagination that's portraying them. We're not bonding with the kitties; we're bonding with the whimsical mind of TS Eliot.

If Cats has a problem then it's more to do with the straight-jacketing effect of the light verse which sometimes forces the music into a predictable tum-ti-tum-ti-tum pattern. Sometimes Lord Andy can overcome this problem with inventive little bits of rhythm (as in the phrase: "The Rum Tum Tugger is a curious cat"). But the verse still doesn't quite offer the flexibility of an original lyric.

Even so, it's still a very entertaining miaow-sical.

Desert Island Discs in the South Pacific

Old interview with Lord Andy from Radio 4's archive of Desert Island Discs.

The Lord's (at that time merely Sir's) music selections are typically diverse - from rock 'n' roller Shostakovich to Bollywood composer AR Rahman - as well as typically populist - Elvis Presley and The Beatles. Only one pick was a musical theatre number but it was a goody: Rodgers and Hammerstein's "Some Enchanted Evening".

Hard to argue with that. But what makes the melody so enchanting? For me, the secret of the song is in one little semi-tone. Let's take the first six notes:

"Some En-chan-ted Eve-ning"

The second of those notes is an F sharp. If you are of a certain musical disposition and knowing that we are in the key of C, you may give a small shudder. F sharp, you see, is foreign to the key of C. It should be an F natural. Play a C chord and stick an F sharp on top of it and it sounds dissonant, wonky, wrong.

So how come this wrongness sounds so right? Well, firstly the F sharp falls on an off-beat - the "en" of "enchanted" - so there isn't a direct clash with the chord underneath. Place that F sharp on an on-beat like the "eve" of "eve-ning" and the whole thing sounds wonky again.

Secondly, try substituting the foreign-sounding F sharp for a "proper" F natural. Go on, I dare you. With just that tiny change the melody feels so different; it's lighter and brighter but, at the same time, a whole lot less enchanting.

The song is from South Pacific. The character singing is Emile de Becque, a romantic (he's French) and exotic (he has half-Polynesian kids) plantation owner with a dark past (he killed a man). In short, he is a man who would definitely sing an F sharp.

Sometimes a semi-tone makes all the difference.