Jesus, Christina Superstar!
Hollywood Bowl Unveils "Jesus Christ Super-Duperstar": Erivo's Divine Diva Debut Leaves Apostles Agog!
Behold! The celestial casting call has echoed through the smog-choked canyons of Tinseltown, and the divine answer? Why, none other than the London-born, incandescent Cynthia Erivo, poised to descend upon the Hollywood Bowl like a sequined seraphim/her in Andrew Lloyd Webber's latest rock 'n' roll resurrection of "Jesus Christ Superstar." Yes, you heard right, folks! The very same Erivo who can snag an award quicker than a paparazzo snaps a celebrity crotch shot is now taking on the role of the bearded wonder himself!
Prepare yourselves for an experience so earth-shatteringly woke, it'll make your chakra align with a Kardashian's PR strategy. Forget everything you thought you knew about the Son of God, because in a move that's clearly the result of a focus group comprised entirely of kombucha bottles, Jesus has apparently undergone a radical gender reassignment. (Don't ask me how, consult your local astrologer or a particularly enlightened sourdough starter.)
This isn't just your grandma's "Jesus Christ Superstar," folks. This is "Jesus Christ Super-Duperstar," where the rock 'n' roll riffs are as loud as the outraged tweets from the pearl-clutching masses. Expect glitter, expect interpretive dance that would make Isadora Duncan spontaneously combust, and expect a level of spiritual enlightenment rivalled only by a weekend retreat at Gwyneth Paltrow's latest wellness compound.
The Bowl is bracing for a seismic shift in the two-thousand-year, space-time continuum, or at least a sold-out run with concession stands hawking artisanal manna and organic, sustainably sourced loaves and fishes. Get your tickets now, before the divine box office implodes under the weight of its own fabulousness, and the only miracle to come from it will be the sheer audacity of it all, as JC is unveiled as a woman!
Okay, picture this: "Jesus-ina" strolls into the temple, not with gentle rebukes, but with a withering glare that could curdle almond milk. The money changers, accustomed to patriarchal bluster, wilt under her perfectly arched eyebrow. "Seriously, Chad? You're charging that much for doves? Your chakra alignment is offensively off." Forget parables about seeds; we're talking scathing Pinterest boards on "Spiritual Decluttering" and "How to Manifest a Decent Man (Or Just a Really Good Brunch)." The disciples? A chaotic group of "influencers" arguing over who gets to live-tweet the miracle of the loaves and fishes, while Judas runs a highly profitable essential oils pyramid scheme on the side.
Instead of walking on water, J.C. would probably have a viral TikTok of her effortlessly gliding across a pool on a giant inflatable swan, captioning it "#BlessedAndBoujee." The Sermon on the Mount becomes a masterclass in "Emotional Labour Management" and "Setting Boundaries with Toxic Relatives." Forget turning water into wine; we're talking artisanal kombucha that cures hangovers and existential dread. The crucifixion? Nah, it's a meticulously curated Paltrow "wellness retreat" gone horribly wrong, documented in real-time on Instagram stories. The resurrection is followed by a limited-edition merch drop: "I Rose...And So Can You!" yoga pants and "Namaste Bitches" tote bags.
Behold, the glorious march of progress! Or, perhaps, the chaotic stampede of historical revisionism, where the mighty King Lear is now "Leah," a beacon of feminist power, and Henry VIII, that notorious wife collector, has blossomed into the resplendent "Henrietta the Eighth," champion of inclusivity and gluten-free banquets. And who could forget the poignant tale of "The Madness of King Georgina," where the subtle nuances of 18th-century mental health are replaced with a rousing narrative of gender-fluid self-discovery? It’s truly a golden age of… well, something.
And let's not overlook the hallowed halls of fictional espionage, where the suave, martini-sipping James Bond has, in a stroke of revolutionary casting, become "Jane Bond." Forget the complex moral ambiguity of a seasoned spy; now we have a narrative where every villain is defeated with a well-placed lecture on intersectional feminism. The sheer audacity of these rewrites, the utter disregard for established narratives, it's enough to make a traditionalist clutch their pearls and faint onto a fainting couch upholstered with the very fabric of historical accuracy.
This isn’t just about updating stories; it’s about a wholesale appropriation, a cultural land grab where beloved characters are stripped of their essence and repurposed as mascots for the latest social agenda. It's a grand spectacle of performative wokeness, a theatrical display of virtue signalling where historical and fictional figures are merely props in a never-ending morality play. And frankly, darling, the script needs a serious rewrite.
So, with all this in mind, I’ve made the brave decision to write the format for a brand new musical, based on the life of former French President, Charles de Gaulle (you know, as one does), and to keep up with current trends, for the purposes of this exercise he is now Charlotte de Gaul, President of France, and the delightfully absurd alternate history that might unfold:
The Grandeur (and Absurdity) of Charlotte:
Fashion Diplomacy:
Instead of grand speeches, Charlotte would deploy "haute couture offensives." International summits would become fashion shows, with strategic use of berets, scarves, and perhaps even a line of "Presidential Chic" handbags to sway foreign leaders.
The "Force de Frappe" would be re-imagined as a collection of exquisitely tailored, strategically placed, and intimidatingly fashionable garments.
The "Non!" with a Flourish:
Charlotte's famous "Non!" would be delivered with a dramatic hair flip and a perfectly timed eye roll.
Instead of vetoing Britain's entry into the EEC based on economic concerns, it would be because "their tweed clashes with the continental aesthetic."
National Identity:
"La Gloire" would be redefined as the pursuit of the perfect croissant and the impeccable application of lipstick.
National service would involve mandatory classes in wine tasting and the art of the perfect "bouffant."
Foreign Policy:
The Cold War would be fought with passive-aggressive dinner parties, where subtle digs and expertly crafted canapés would replace nuclear threats.
The Élysée Palace would become a battleground for interior design supremacy, with visiting dignitaries subjected to intense critiques of their hotel room décor.
Political Style:
Her speeches would be less about policy, and more about the correct way to wear a scarf.
She would create a new political party called "Le Chic" with the slogan "Elegance and world domination."
The Media:
Instead of press conferences, she would hold "fashion critiques" of journalists' attire.
Her state visits would be covered by "Vogue France" with in depth reports on her outfits.
National Projects:
Instead of the Concorde, France would produce the world’s most luxurious handbag.
The French space program would be dedicated to finding the most fashionable fabric in the universe.
The Potential Outcomes:
France's influence would shift from military and political might to a reign of sartorial supremacy.
The world would be divided into those who "got the look" and those who didn't.
International relations would be conducted through meticulously curated gift baskets and strategically placed accessories.
The phrase "That is so last season" would replace "I declare war".
Forget Tim and Andrew, this is politically correct for 2025. What do you think?
No! Okay then, it’s back to Plan A -
Cynthia Erivo in concert with the ‘Black Dyke Band’, at the Royal Albert Hall.
A group whose reputation precedes them. With a staggering catalogue of over 350 recordings and a trophy cabinet brimming with national and European accolades, the Black Dyke Band exemplifies the pinnacle of musical achievement."
I’d be tempted to buy a ticket for this myself. If only for the irony!
