The 11th commandment: thou shalt have fun

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This article was published 25/02/2012 (5166 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

Yo, my brethren. Nobody’s gonna yell “Hallelujah!” in praise of Altar Boyz as a heaven-sent piece of theatre.

This mildly irreverent spoof of pious Christian pop and faux-streetwise boy bands like ‘N Sync and the Backstreet Boys is just a goofy romp. It’ll melt from your mind faster than a communion wafer, but it’s blessedly silly fun.

Who knew, for instance, that the Lord spake unto the chosen homeboys, telling them: “Anoint thy hair with product!”

Prairie Theatre Exchange has levitated Winnipeg Studio Theatre’s wildly popular 2009 Winnipeg fringe version of the off-Broadway musical to its mainstage, where it opened Thursday.

Director Kayla Gordon has reassembled the same five funky-fresh white guys in their 20s as the Altar Boyz, a way-worshipful vocal group from Ohio.

The 85-minute, no-intermission show with tunes by Gary Adler and Michael Patrick Walker and book by Kevin Del Aguila takes the form of the final concert on the band’s Raise the Praise tour.

“Now we don’t believe in hurtin’ or in hatin’/ ‘Cause that’s the kind of stuff that leads to Satan,” the five proclaim in their opening number, assuring us that God is “real phat.”

Matthew, Mark, Luke, Juan and Abraham (the Jewish one) have never played Winnipeg before. It turns out we’re a naughty crowd when it comes to unrepentant sinners. The show’s amusing central gimmick is that a gadget called the Soul Sensor keeps track of how many unsaved souls are in the house.

Can the scripture-quoting, crotch-grabbing five drive the count down to zero by show’s end, or will they have to resort to exorcism?

The boyz have some impure thoughts of their own. If you’re offended by gay stereotypes or sexual innuendo, consider yourself warned that the show gets many of its laughs from the simmering man-love that the prancing Mark feels for the fly group leader, Matthew.

With his swishy dance moves, hyperactive tush and model-esque poses, Mark (irresistibly flamboyant Joseph Sevillo) longs to make a rainbow connection, if you catch our drift, with the tall, muscular Matthew (Jeremy Walmsley). Mark’s confessional song, a show highlight, leads you to believe he’s coming out. Instead, it makes some other, er, revelations.

The whole show gleefully relies on stereotypes. Luke (Michael Lyons) is the comically dumb, gangster-ish one with substance-abuse issues. (Costume designer Brenda McLean has unwisely hidden Lyons’ forehead under a black hat, making him recede in terms of stage presence.)

Juan (Marc Devigne) is a swivel-hipped, thick-accented Mexican whose Ricky Martin sendup, La Vida Eternal, is sensational. When the lightweight script is at its laziest, it reaches for yuks like having Juan pronounce “you” as “jew.” Naturally, the Jew (Simon Miron) — a bespectacled brain who uses dated shizzle-speak — replies.

Altar Boyz is, first and foremost, song-and-dance entertainment. The boyz, who each get a turn in the spotlight, all have the vocal chops to pull off muscular raps, buttery ballads, tight harmonies and R&B-style vocal runs that are spoofed for their show-off qualities.

But there are problems in the sound mix, with the four-piece band tending to overpower the cheeky lyrics in many of the up-tempo numbers. In a show like this, where all the lyrics are comedic, it’s essential that they can be understood without the audience having to strain.

The five dance up a booty-shaking storm on the slick two-level set. Choreographers Sofia Costantini and Brenda Gorlick update the hip-hop-based style of the ’90s boy bands with elements of krumping, b-boying and popping and locking, not to mention a blazing salsa.

Walmsley, the youngest member of the cast, has such presence as the sweetly earnest Matthew that it’s difficult to pull your eyes away from him. The triple-threat tenor from Neepawa is headed for a big career.

He dances like a dream and nails exactly the right comic tone of innocent godliness in his acting. When he serenades a woman from the audience with a swoony ode to premarital chastity, the Soul Sensor may detect impure thoughts from many in the congregation.

alison.mayes@freepress.mb.ca