London Times, 23 June 1981, by Irving Wardle.
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Highlights of Christian history in the past ten years 
include the ride of the moonies, the Jonestown massacre, and 
the establishment of cult deprogramming as an upcoming new 
profession. I would not dream of laying such spiritual 
conspiracies at the door of John-Michael Tebelak and Stephen 
Schwartz's synoptic rave-up; but it is a fact that the sight 
of a pack of obedient kids bouncing their way through the 
parables under the hypnotic gaze of a pin-up Nazarene looks 
a good deal less harmless than it did when *Godspell* first 
burst upon the Round House audience 10 years ago.

At that time, the word for this kind of company was "tribe"-
-a handy term borrowed from *Hair* to denote any young group 
whose posture of social alienation relieved the author of 
equipping them with a social background. Their attitude was 
what mattered, not where or who they were, or what they did. 
But looking at the *Godspell* tribe again now that the love 
generation is dead and gone, you do start wondering just who 
they are supposed to be. In spite of their rapt attention to 
every phrase that falls from their leader's lips, they 
obviously do not represent the disciples or any kind of 
congregation, if only for the reason that they know all the 
stuff already, and start acting out the prodigal son or the 
good Samaritan as soon as they get the cue. What they do 
suggest is a group of lost children who have taken refuge in 
a closed cult, and are now energetically selling it to the 
world. 

*Godspell* does not gloss over the revengeful severities of 
Christian doctrine; eyes are to be torn out, unfraternal 
siblings to be cast into hell fire. But the trick of the 
show is to back up all such threats with electric circus 
rock music that obliterates their meaning. Sometimes numbers 
are in direct contradiction to what the words are saying. 
"Turn Back O Man," theatrically the most irresistible song 
in the show, delivers its warning against carnal indulgence 
by sending the most red-hot lady in the troupe through the 
house, spraying out Mae West invitations as *ad libs* 
between the lyrics.

It is all a matter of overcoming audience resistance. 
Irreverent back-chat makes up a good deal of the first half; 
and then steadily diminishes until, with the the Last Supper 
and the Crucifixion, revivalist disco gives way to 
devotional intensity.

Stuart Mungall's productiosn has the visual character of a 
period piece: flared jeans, Indian cotton tops, "peace" and 
"love" stickers, and a floral rainbow stage (by Bernard 
Culshaw) raked to suggest a giant bagatelle board. It also 
exceeds the line of duty in evoking late-1960s audience 
participation, and begins with the chorus breaking into the 
Creator's opening speech and barging through the house 
asking if this is the Old Vic. This certainly makes a 
contrast with their final line-up for the stations of the 
Cross, but there is not much to be said for it.

The names of the company are new to me, but several of them 
establish strong stage personalities: particularly Anthony 
Head, who seizes central stage authority as the prodigal 
son's narrator, Trudie Goodwin an agile singer who really 
makes you attend to the lyrics, and Nicola Blackman, who 
comes over hot and strong in "Turn back O Man." Jointly they 
do form an ensemble who are mutually responsive, well-
coordinated and unselfish, all capable of taking their solo 
spots and then melting back into the group. Timothy 
Whitnall's Jesus, in white slacks and frock coat, is 
something less than the life and soul of the party. By 
definition, he operates outside the group; but when he does 
join in the fun he fails to dominate it, and seems less at 
home with music-hall and rock routines than at the moments 
when he cuts into them with reedy denunciations.



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