The hour whizzes by, but sticks in the mind long afterwards.
The show doesn’t take itself seriously in any way, and is peppered with absurdist humour, including one groan-worthy pun on the word ‘meringues’. McCormick’s onstage persona is that of an arrogant narcissist: she even writes in another lamentation scene for Mary as a vehicle for a rousing audience sing-along. However, there is too much substance here to simply dismiss it as frothy pastiche. Given the tiresome taboos and fetishisation of female nudity (of which there is no shortage in this show), the laughter itself has a triumphantly transgressive quality. Much has also been made of Mccormick's commentary on the religious abuse of female bodies and her unapologetic boldness is a triumphant act of reclamation.
There are well thought through strands of connections with medieval mystery theatre, where there was an emphasis on religion becoming tangibly fleshy, giving this hyper-modern show a kind of primal element, tapping into the wellspring of an ancient tradition with punktastic flair.
Certainly, it’s not for the faint of heart. One section, which re-enacts the story of Thomas probing Jesus’s body (you can see where that’s going) is as viscerally graphic as anything you’ll ever see on the Fringe. Yet credit must go to McCormick and her director (fellow performance artist Ursula Martinez) for constructing a show with this kind of gloriously trashy style. The hour whizzes by, but sticks in the mind long afterwards.
