Poffy
of Cyrene
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Jesus
Tapdancing Christ.
by
Jon Dunmore © Apr 2001
Anytime
one of us old codgers over 35 is exposed to a re-working of what we consider a
"classic," we approach it with trepidation, fearful our fond memories
will be sullied by some upstart's new vision. And yet...knowing that curiosity
never really killed anything, we unbutton our leisure suits and expose
ourselves nonetheless... On
this night I was much glad for soaking in this rock-opera which I have grown to
know so well that I can pinpoint single substitute lines in newer productions
(spare me the pathos, I call it retention skills) - the new Jesus Christ
Superstar film. Unlike Tommy, Pete Townshend's contribution to the
pantheon of messiahs in tight trousers, which has suffered ingloriously at the
hands of buffoon "modernizers," Superstar has somehow retained
its glorious and gritty mien through the ages. Directed
by Australian Gale Edwards, at Pinewood Studios, London, this Superstar
rightfully didn't try to fix what ain't broke. Filmed
with the intent to retain its stage-play look, the production was thus filmed
on indoor soundstages, with lighting provided by spotlight, cyberlights and par
cans, retaining a "rock" bent. The original Superstar incensed
half its target audience by updating the Judean era to the 1960s flower-child
milieu; this production has been updated to an apocalyptic future (an ambiguous
period, having been postulated no end and still not arrived at - hey, it's 2001,
where's my flying car, man?!), insurrect graffiti on walls, sparse iron-barred
concrete structures, with nods to Andrew Nichol's Gattaca (1997) and Alex
Proyas' Dark City (1998), designed to appeal to a generation too hip to
be into Christ. Until now. Pandering
to pseudo-Orwellian grittiness, Roger Kirk's costume design outfitted the Bad
Guys (Roman soldiery) to please the most dedicated leather-fetishist, taking his
cues from Keanu in The Matrix, and Our Man Darth: Black helmets, nightsticks,
high leather boots, thick studded belts, ankle-length black capes - a hair's breadth
away from the theme of the main float in the last Gay Mardi Gras... The
music was completely re-recorded for this production, with its signature four-piece-band
element over the top of an orchestral backing. Not since Deep Purple's Concerto
for Group & Orchestra (1968) has there been such dynamic symbiosis between
two such disparate idioms. Unlike the 70s Superstar session musicians,
who displayed a fluidity and 'looseness' which was intrinsic to their day, these
new wonderboys with electric appendages smeared their bloodshot session-streetsmarts
over the audio tracks like the stormtroopers who beat into the apostles like gay
Darth Vaders. They bit. They snapped. Ultimately, the shift in era necessitated
this tougher rendition of the music - the drum tracks especially gain from Y2000
production techniques - and this vigorous aspect of the new Superstar makes
up for some of the less-than-exclamatory vocal iniquities. Glenn
Carter, veteran of the 1996 London stage production, where he played Simon (and
somehow resembling a composite of all four Gibb brothers) is Jesus, while Jérôme
Pradon (who could pass for Quentin Tarantino's stunt double) is Judas. Ultimately:
how did Carter and Pradon, under Edwards' direction, hold up against the 1973
power-trinity of Ted Neeley, Carl Anderson and director Norman Jewison (who produced
not the first incarnation of Superstar, but definitely one of the most
revered)? Granted, the upstarts did not outshine the Masters - so much as shine
in their own right. Carter's
voice was Roger Daltrey's without the grit. Yardstick of every Savior Wannabe
is Gethsemane. Ever since stratospheric Steve Balsamo in the 1996 London
production made it a staple to hold that high G (G6) throughout the 5/8 breakdown,
every son-of-a-god vocalist must conquer this Everest to be considered even remotely
divine. Carter fell from grace about halfway. Though his highs were excellent,
they were not stunning - but then, even Balsamo could not top the sheer grandeur
of the Almighty Ted Neeley, whose encephalon-splitting banshee ululations in the
1973 movie were not even topped by Ian Gillan (Deep Purple's wonder-shrieker)
on the original 1970 London studio album. Some reviews compare Carter's acting
to the block of wood he is ultimately astride, but he displays as much thespianism
as required to convey what he needed to, within the confines of a largely sung
performance (a furtive look here, a knowing glance there, conveying unspoken volumes). And
Pradon? Opting to emulate the rambunctious Carl Anderson's rocket-sauce vocal
acrobatics ("The" Judas of various productions from 1971 to the present,
including the '73 movie, alongside Neeley) guaranteed that Pradon's venial vocal
sins would be forgiven. Pontius
Pilate (Fred Johansen) was a surprise bit of casting - no petulant Roman procurator,
wizened on a diet of figs and sodomy, this powerful baritone was a head taller
than Jesus and broader in the shoulders than The Terminator, his muscled breastplate
looking for all the world like he was simply wearing a t-shirt over his real
muscles. Which kinda spoils the fun - for the dynamic between Jesus and Pilate
has always been one of a powerful man in name, meeting a powerful man in spirit.
Though Rik Mayall is a Champion Sneerer, and though King Herod's role
calls for just that, struggling Mayall's lack of vocal talent had him valiantly
attempting to keep apace with his musical stage veteran compatriots - alas, though
he has performed vocals minimally in the past (most notably with his parody band
Bad News), one wonders how he was not cast out of the cast within seconds of opening
his tuneless mouth. The
title track's visualization was a new concept: staged, as it were, like a media
event, Judas bedecked in leather, singing into broadcast cameras, a repeater screen
blaring the visuals, boom mikes crowding Jesus' cross-carrying form; updating
the scene to reflect what would have transpired had Jesus - as Judas sings - "come
today."
Fond
memories retained. Not the definitive Superstar, yet sincere enough to
uphold a grand tradition. Behold, it is good..
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