Godspell

Well, as Miss Mazeppa told Gypsy ya gotta have gimmick, and Godspell's gimmick is to pretend that Christ was under thirty when he died. At least that's the way he acts in this "musical adaptation of the Gospel According to St. Matthew," which comes complete with theological endorsement by none other than Harvey Cox. Godspell's Christ is part clown, part mime, and an all-around song-and-dance man. His is not to tread the weary way of the Via Dolorosa but to hoof instead down the memory lane of Tin Pan Alley.

Surprise of surprises is that, by virtue of its youthful spirits and calculated razzmatazz, Godspell just about succeeds. Set on an empty stage backed by a chain link fence (part schoolyard, part concentration camp, tres modern), God spell manages to overcome its environment--and, to some extent, its genre. The parables and paradoxes which Christ produces--like a magician running through his patter--are really just excuses for songs and jokes and snappy impersonations. And so, the father of the prodigal son is made to speak like Jimmy Cagney and when he announces the homecoming celebration somebody shouts, "Let's Conga!" After all, no one's going to listen to that old story again if you don't spruce it up just a little bit.

And that, it seems, is Cox's point. It's time to welcome magical mystery back into the world. (Could that chain link fence then represent the limitations of the human situation? C'est possible.) Except that Godspell's magic seems to stem from a much more earthly source. Godspell is more about show bizz than it is about Christ. All those allusions inevitably take their toll; the message is overwhelmed by the medium. John-Michael Tebelak, who conceived the show (as part of a Masters program at Carnegie Tech, no less), and Nina Faso, who directed this Boston production, have provided the show with enough stage business to make this the greatest story theater ever told. Only, in place of the respect and awe with which Paul Sills has treated the Brothers Grimm, Godspell is full of the good-natured self-mockery of the Great White Way.

The meanings of the parables themselves are lost as the audience concentrates instead on the imitations--Groucho Marx, Jack Benny, Shirley Temple and Donald Duck are numbered among this lord's disciples--and the song and dance routines. There is a soft-shoe number (Christ and Judas singing "All for the Best"), a Simon-and-Garfunkeler ("On the Willow," a hymn to crucifixion), and a nice example of that newest of song-types, revival rock ("Day by Day.") Although most of Stephen Schwartz's songs are interchangeable, Godspell avoids the free-formlessness of Hair. From the sight gags to the pantomimes to the chorus line kicks, each bit in this musical has been carefully thought out. One admires the show's execution as much as its inspiration.

There are a few momentary problems. The cast of ten is so over-dressed as Marimekko-bright Raggedy Anns and Andys that the smallest lapse in the blocking and the stage tends to loss its focus. And while the voices are generally good, they, nonetheless, benefit by the generous use of handheld mikes. Intermission comes, however, and all is soon forgiven. In a winning display of ecclesiastical chic, the cast invites the audience up on stage for a chance at conversation and a little bit of wine.

As Christ, Dan Stone follows the pattern set by his crowd. (The problem, it would seem, of making Christ a clown is that clowns are more apt to follow than to lead.) At times, his tone becomes overly solicitous--like a travel agent describing the most suitable road to heaven--but mostly he's the kind of good time Charley you'd be happy to include in any rag-tag gang. As Judas, Lloyd Bremseth has less to do; Godspell being as nonlinear as it is, he is more Christ's alter-ego than he is Christ's adversary.

Like Jesus Christ--Superstar, Godspell avoids the Resurrection. "Long live God," the cast sings as they carry off Christ's dead body rather as if he were Hamlet or perhaps Thomas a Becket. Consequently, this musical never has to come to terms with itself. Who or what is this Christ we have before us? Well, let's just say he sure could tell a mean parable. And, when it came to a group sing, he sure could get it together.

Not that I'm complaining, mind you. I'd just as soon not be bothered by such questions myself. And there's enough real fun in Godspell to make such an evasion guiltless. I could explain how the cast will suddenly start muttering "Hubba, Hubba" or how one of its members will introduce a skit by saying, "Chapter number 22, verse number 19, take 3. O-K, kids, this one's for the money," but it doesn't really come to life until you see them all in action. So then, what does it matter that Godspell tells about as much about religion as The Fantastiks tells of love? Heaven and Hell may, after all, be dubious propositions, but Variety--the real show business Bible--just goes on and on and on.