Stephen Berkoff’s Messiah: Scenes from a Crucifixion
claims to be outré, obscene and blasphemous, which at times it
certainly is. Lines like Jesus’s “Whatever happens,
don’t let them break my legs or I’m really fucked”
are proof positive that this is a piece of work is aimed at
shocking an audience, conditioned, believers and heathens alike,
to the conventional ramblings of Christian doctrine. Mel
Gibson’s The Passion of The Christ was as controversial as
Playdays compared to this reading of history’s most
notorious homicide. The gospel according to Berkoff goes as follows: Jesus is a
man intent on fulfilling the prophecies of the Old Testament, but
understands that “The Messiah will never come, so we have to
create one.” This requires feigning his own gory demise only
to “rise” again three days later, thus providing the
credulous with a presaged redeemer of mankind. The establishment
of a hero-cult is certified when it goes wrong and Jesus dies,
but the disciples stick to their conspiratorial story and a
religion is born. This is, at times, literary masturbation of the basest
variety, more jerk-off than Berkoff. Some of the dialogue is
simply dreadful. The man who sees himself as the saviour of
British theatre, Berkoff should adopt a mantra: “I am not
the Messiah” might be a good place to start. Yet the
indulgences of a writer must not be blamed on those attempting to
perform, and so Scenes from a Crucifixion is redeemed by the
verve of the acting and intelligent use of space, exploiting the
full gallery recesses of the OFS. The excellent Kerry Norman as JC is a zealous, Machiavellian
politician pre-execution, but struggles a little on “The big
‘x’” (who said being crucified was easy?). His
performance is supported by a chorus which has the suppleness to
portray Jewish clerics, disciples and Roman soldiers with equal
proficiency. Also to savour are the muscular histrionics of a
Judas who looks like he spent his thirty pieces of silver on
Creatine, and Tom Richards’ appearance as an extraordinary,
lascivious Caiaphas. The portrayal of Satan is so hackneyed (red
shirt, “menacing” cockney accent, forked stubble) that
the only surprises are the absence of attendant familiars and
pronged tail. Having said this, Tai Shan Ling, as the dark one,
is fabulously energetic and seductively, malevolently lucid, in
another arresting performance from one of Oxford’s premier
players. I wouldn’t sell my soul to Beelzebub to see this, but if
you resist the temptation to see only Berkoff’s mediocrity
in Lisa Maule’s production, you should be repaid with a
decent enough evening.ARCHIVE: 6th week TT 2004
The Gospel according to Berkoff
