“The Book of Mormon” is a show of profane extremes.
Take, for example, the gleefully lewd musical satire’s two fundamental views of religion.
On the one hand, there’s the teenage Mormon missionaries. At the climax of the zealously evangelical, doorbell-ding-donging opening number, the socially awkward Elder Cunningham blurt/grunts with the zeal of a quarterback making a Hail Mary pass: “Would you like to change religions? I have a free book written by Jesus!” Switch out the proper noun and you’ve got a sentiment every evangelizing religion in the world has expressed.
On the other hand, there’s “Hasa Diga Eebowai,” the first musical number set in Uganda, where Cunningham (Evan Lennon) and his mission companion Elder Price (Sam McLellan) are sent to bring new Mormons on board. The number is not wholly unlike “The Lion King’s” chill “Hakuna Matata,” but instead shrugging at woes beyond your control, “Hasa Diga Eebowai” involves flinging expletives that cannot be printed here.
With book, music and lyrics by Trey Parker and Matt Stone (of “South Park” fame), along with “Avenue Q” songwriter Robert Lopez, “The Book of Mormon” remains as hilarious and unapologetically offensive as it was when it swept the Tony Awards in 2012. The plot follows Elder Cunningham and Elder Price as they are transformed in Uganda, a land they are initially befuddled to learn bears no resemblance to “The Lion King.”
Throughout, sacred cows are rendered sausage, stereotypes soar higher than the golden Angel Moroni who perches high above the set, and characters are as stereotypical and underwritten as last-ditch campaign fliers. It’s all done with defiant glee that thumbs its nose at pearl-clutchers. Consider yourself warned: Among the miracles on parade here, a nose transformed into a clitoris and a disease-curing sex frog.
In this world “Africa” and “Africans” are used interchangeably with “Uganda” and “Ugandans” while a clutch of ivory-skinned folk boldly and un-ironically declare “I Am Africa,” swaying with Live Aid righteousness.
But “Book of Mormon” isn’t puerile or shocking simply for the sake of being so. Good satire has a point, and “The Book of Mormon” has enough for a solid crown of thorns. Nowhere is this clearer than in the showstopper “Turn it Off,” wherein a cadre of Mormons (anchored by the fabulously charismatic tapper Sean Casey Flanagan) teach Elder Price that the secret to dealing with unpleasant emotions — like when you’ve just seen someone shot — is simply to turn them off “like a light switch.” It’s an attitude hardly exclusive to Mormonism.
Directed and choreographed by Jennifer Werner (original co-direction by Parker and choreographer Casey Nicholaw), the cast and the design team haven’t cut a single sparkly corner since the show’s Chicago debut over a decade ago.
McLellan’s journey from insufferable, self-proclaimed savior to someone in possession of a modicum of critical thinking skills and humility is well-played, his pivot point coming with the anthem “I Believe.” The number is trickier to deliver than a rich man’s camel through the eye of a needle — it’s got to be at once ardent, empathetic and patently ridiculous. McLellan nails it — earnest and faithful that “a Mormon just believes” — before reaching the comedic rafters with the lyrics that “God changed his mind about Black people in 1978” and “the Garden of Eden was in Jackson County, Missouri.” In all, the song captures a foundational element of organized religion: Its ability to make people unshakably loyal to ideas that confound history, science, facts or all three.
Cunningham is a terrific foil as a classic dork who finds power in independence and imagination. “Baptize Me” might be a one-joke duet with the winsome local Nabulungi (Berlande), but it sounds gorgeous. Berlande also delivers the sole completely serious moment in “Book of Mormon,” a poignant reprise of “Hasa Diga Eebowai” that is cut through with grief and disillusionment.
It’s a brief moment that has impact but doesn’t last because this, after all, is musical comedy. And its core values — music and comedy — remain wickedly intact.
