It came. We saw. It conquered.
It’s been a couple of weeks now that my wife and I were part of a very receptive, very packed Straz Center to see the controversial, award-winning musical, “The Book of Mormon.” Ours was not an anomalous experience. From book and music to set design and choreography, there was much to appreciate and admire. The blockbuster hit had a very successful, pre-holiday run.
“It’s a terrific show for Tampa to get,” assessed Paul Bilyeu, the Straz’s senior director of communications. “And if we didn’t get it, it would be noted.”
Indeed, it would not have looked good if internationally recognized, Tony Award fare didn’t play well in this market–one with such a world-class facility. Tampa isn’t New York, but neither is it New Port Richey.
Somewhat to my surprise–given that I often feel like an alien in pop culture–I liked the “The Book of Mormon” more than I expected. It worked on several levels–enough, let’s be honest, to transcend periodic forays into questionable taste and sophomoric humor.
This is not “The Book of World Records” by Guinness, “The Book of Face” by Zuckerberg or the “Book of Love” by the Monotones. This is “The Book of Mormon” by “South Park” creators, a sacrilegious send-up of a, let’s be honest again, quirky religion’s holy book. And Trey Parker and Matt Stone took no prisoners–even when they should have.
Bottom line: Thank you, wholly vulnerable Mormon religion.
Parody material to die for is a theatrical godsend. We all have doorbells. We remember the Romney campaign “cult” disclaimers. The polygamy reminders. Many of us still have our “Mad Magazine” side. We get it.
Other religions have, for example, Jesus of Nazareth or Muhammad of Medina as their deified prophets. The Mormons have Joe Smith of upstate New York. And the hits keep coming from there. From nerdy, teenaged missionaries presuming to explain much of anything to other cultures, especially African ones, to biblical back stories that might as well have Hobbits in the mix.
Plus, I grew up a George Carlin Catholic. I know dogmatic satire material when I see it.
And, of course, thank you, musical comedy.
Blasphemies–at least this side of Sharia law–set to song, dance and farce don’t seem so blasphemous. Think: “Life of Brian,” (“blessed are the cheese makers”) or “Jesus Christ Superstar” (“Prove to me that you’re no fool, walk across my swimming pool”) or “The Producers” (“Spring Time for Hitler”). Hilarious. And in the case of Mel Brooks’ “Spring Time,” maybe even a device to defuse evil by reducing it to song and dance.
It might not seem fair, but well-done musical comedy is the perfect vehicle for the otherwise unacceptably outrageous. And making light of the holocaust, genital mutilation and AIDS–as well as flipping off God–arguably qualify. But, yes, they were also–wink, nod–plot-advancing devices.
To be sure, there were times when humor was “South Park” at its most crudely juvenile. We could have done without a cultural, sexual-deviancy spoof and a simulated sex act by Jeffrey Dahmer. Mercifully, the latter was in the diversion-filled, “Spooky Mormon Hell Dream” scene and could be easily missed. Some things “South Parkers” just can’t resist–even when they should.
Probably the loudest laugh of the night was elicited from a line by one of the young missionary “elders,” who was reeling from revelatory life outside the Utah cocoon: “I can’t believe Jesus called me a dick.”
Actually, by then, it’s downright believable. Jesus had a case.