When I was introduced to Jesus Christ Superstar, my Bible-thumping mother leveled a stern warning: This show was blasphemous. Jesus presented as a mere mortal— “just another man”—who was in over his head leading a band of freedom fighters champing at the bit to storm Rome, who maybe had sexual relations with former lady of the night, Mary Magdalene, and whose right-hand disciple, Judas Iscariot, had reached a boiling point of frustration.
Fortunately for me, my mom revered Andrew Lloyd Webber almost as much as Christ, so Superstar slipped through the cracks of an otherwise iron-clad evangelical 1980s upbringing. Its sacrilegious message—and the timeless songs by Webber and Tim Rice—are exactly what make this piece just as wonderful now as when it was released, first as a concept album in 1970, then a rock opera the following year, and finally as a film in 1973.
The latest iteration of Jesus Christ Superstar is now showing at the 5th Avenue Theatre, directed by the company’s executive and artistic director, Bill Berry. What’s exciting about this production—and what feels so deliciously Seattle—is its infusion of homegrown rock stars; Cameron Lavi-Jones (of King Youngblood) and Molly Sides (Thunderpussy) play Judas Iscariot and Mary Magdalene, respectively. Even on paper, this reads like a recipe for success (and just the kind of thing we need to, you know, make Seattle rock again). And it works.
Before going further, a caveat: It would take a lot, at least for folks like me who were raised on the film, to top the original. Shot against jaw-dropping backdrops across Israel and Palestine, the film is a masterpiece. Nor is it an easy task to substitute the hippie subtext—a countercultural zeitgeist that succeeds in driving home the friction between pacifism and fighting for liberation.
Nevertheless, Berry takes Superstar for a spin in the present: during the overture, restless revolutionaries in green berets carry gas masks and spray paint “JESUS IS COMING” in giant letters across an imperial-coded banner unfurled to the floor. Anachronisms are what make the original production so delightful—mixing hippies and machine guns with togas and tanks. Where the film sprinkled in Roman Empire, Berry subbed militarist iconography and fascist graphics laced with whispers of Weimar decadence and a dash of ICE.
And therein lies the crux of the production’s strength and weakness: it gives us moments of anachronistic sparkle, but it’s not quite enough. Berry hints at where the show could go, but fails to take it all the way.
Scenes of absolute, scintillating brilliance like the Last Supper depict the disciples gathered ’round the table as DoorDash delivers pizza and Magdalene rushes to snap a Polaroid. The flash pops and the scene freezes in a perfect reconstruction of da Vinci, while Jesus sings his plaintive last supper song. Scenes like this make others feel incomplete or timid; why not push toward more camp, more 21st century, more rock and roll? Or would that tip the production into corny? (The presence of red MAGA-coded caps tipped thusly.)
These were the thoughts running through my mind as the audience was taken, nonetheless, on a breathless journey. The rock stars delivered—boy, can Sides and Lavi-Jones sing. It makes up for the occasional one-dimensionality of their characters.
What makes the original Superstar so spicy is the tension between Jesus, Judas, and Mary—a love triangle of sorts with life and death in the balance, where romantic passion is at odds with religious devotion and political zeal. In this version, a lot of that tension is missing, the romantic undercurrent is largely suppressed. Magdalene dutifully flutters around Christ, all saint and no sinner.
I couldn’t help yearning for the production to go a little off the rockstar rails, simply because it could. I wanted Sides to break into her trademark backbend—she was trained as a dancer and choreographer before she ever started a band. I don’t care if there isn’t a reason for it.
This is the part where we can forgive Sides and Lavi-Jones for being rock stars and not actors. It’s their first foray into musical theater of this scale, after all (though we can’t be sure it wasn’t Berry who reined them in.) Regardless, he took a risk by casting them, and ultimately it paid off. The sheer vocal aura of Sides as she belts the guttural lyrics of I Don’t Know How to Love Him is nothing short of electrifying. And while Lavi-Jones’s leather jacket-clad Judas at times feels one-note in the portrayal of impassioned frustration, when he descends on a platform, flanked by pyrotechnics, to perform the disco-fueled, titular final number, all is forgiven.
Likewise, Alexander Kilian delivered a spotless rendition of Christ, from beatific voice to hollowed cheeks and Jesus beard. In fact, he brought more life to the role than ever showed up in the film production (sorry, Ted Neeley), delivering less effete, more believable, good-looking charismatic cult leader vibes. His performance of “Gethsemane” left the room cheering.
At the end of the day (and the play), I cried. The cast, musicians, and crew pulled off a commendable production. Anyone with a pulse and a modicum of interest should see the musical—one way or another, you will leave moved.
See Jesus Christ Superstar at the 5th Avenue Theatre through May 17.