Come Out of the Closet, Jesus 

The drama, currently presented by Off-Tryon Theatre Company in their cozy studio quonset on Cullman Avenue, retells the New Testament story culminating in the crucifixion of Christ. A few notable changes were made in the Gospel according to Terrence.

For reasons best beknownst to the writer, half of the story is transposed to modern-day Corpus Christi, Texas, intermittently shuttling back to Ancient Israel. And in case you hadn't gotten the word, this updated Jesus is gay. He not only condones gay marriage, he sanctifies it. And Judas' kiss takes on a whole new meaning.

Word certainly reached the New York Post prior to the Off-Broadway previews of Corpus in 1998. Headlines blared out the impending hanky-panky between Jesus and his disciples. Right-wing nutballs screamed blasphemy without seeing either the play or the script, issuing death threats if the production opened.

Then in an act of cravenness that would have been much less astounding here in Charlotte, the Manhattan Theatre Club announced it was canceling the show for fear of being unable to guarantee their actors' safety. McNally was outraged by the cowardly self-censorship, and left-wing liberals issued volley after volley of fierce denunciation.

To complete the Carolina/Gotham role reversal, internationally renowned playwright Athol Fugard, then appearing in Charleston at Spoleto USA, threatened to pull his new play, The Captain's Tiger, out of the Manhattan Theatre Club's lineup for the 1998-99 season. Duly chastened, MTC backpedaled and reinstated McNally's play and, in a visionary move offering their audience a sneak preview of our Terrorist Millennium, set up metal detectors at the door. They went on with the show -- 56 performances without bloodshed.

I can proudly say that Charlotte greeted Corpus with far less sensationalism and far more cool. No front page headlines in the Observer. No posturing by our County Commissioners. No attention-grabbing pickets by local Christian crazies.

Truth is, Corpus is a rather reverential piece, devoid of the nudity that spiced McNally's Love! Valour! Compassion!. You'd have to be a rather virulent homophobe to be upset by the goings-on at Off-Tryon. Homosexuality is accepted, rather than avidly promoted. You'll see some hand-holding between a couple of the disciples, some cuddling -- and a couple of dramatic kisses -- between Jesus and Judas. While the lyrical dialogue occasionally drifts into the loose and profane, there's no heavy petting, let alone raunch.

Under John Hartness' disarmingly relaxed direction, the simplicity and sincerity of McNally's script shine with a gentle warmth. The entire stage is caked with sand -- so is the ground beneath the audience's feet -- and strands of Christmas lights figure prominently in Hartness' lighting design. No, I didn't kick off my shoes and socks to watch barefoot. But I was invited.

There's a footloose, improvised feel to the opening ceremony when each actor is introduced by his real name and then "baptized" into his stage role. Mike Farmer, as John, is marvelously suited for these priestly ministrations, sagely, genial, and quietly confident. After each baptism, the disciple testifies directly to the audience, casually preparing us for the transplant of the story from Nazareth to Texas. While some of the disciples' professions are ancient -- lawyer, physician, fisherman -- contemporary flavoring is added when we meet a hairdresser, a high school teacher (from Pontius Pilate High), and a masseur.

Chris O'Neill's intro as Judas wasn't the weakest among the disciples, but it ought to be one of the strongest. Perhaps it was opening night jitters, because O'Neill grew positively charismatic as the evening progressed -- with a pleasingly powerful Texas manliness. Peter Smeal as Thaddeus the hairdresser and Hank West as Thomas the actor moonlighting as a truck driver also provided agreeable tastes of Texas.

McNally is coy about letting us know which of his players is portraying the son of God. He's designated as Joshua in the dramatis personae, invoking the more authoritative translation of the original Hebrew name, and the playwright emphasizes our protagonist's humanity more frequently than his divinity. Point is, he's refreshingly like us, doubtful that he is worthy of his divine mission.

Hartness makes perhaps his most audacious choice in tapping Eric Foss for the role. Since he starred rather superbly last year in King Arthur's Magic Sword for Children's Theatre, there could be no doubting that Foss possessed the necessary purity and majesty.

But he's just a kid, for Christ's sake, not yet graduated from high school. When O'Neill as Judas hovers around the lad and seduces him, I can't help thinking that we have an adult in his prime corrupting a minor. While Corpus could definitely benefit from a few more hard edges, I'm not sure this one helps.

Nor am I comfortable with the shuttling back and forth across the millennia, scampering to the Holy Land whenever McNally senses that his latter-day messiah needs a fresh fix of holiness. If we're zeroing in on today's homophobic hate crimes, we probably shouldn't be dipping into the Gospels' toolbox and resurrecting crucifixion as the instrument of Jesus' martyrdom. That really isn't the abomination of choice for up-to-date bigots.

Aside from the languid Fire Island ambiance he creates with tons of beach sand, Hartness instills a very special camaraderie in his ensemble. So you may emerge from Off-Tryon a bit puzzled about what the new Jesus' message is and why McNally has delivered it in this form. Chances are you'll still be convinced that this ensemble has grasped the message completely and -- rightly or wrongly -- embraced it. That's pretty special. And powerful.

You never know where the next surprise is coming from when you watch a piece by Rupert Holmes. But it's coming soon. In Holmes's latest, Thumbs, now getting an "Exclusive World Preview" from The Actor's Theatre of Charlotte, one big surprise enters suddenly from stage right wearing a ski mask, wielding a meat cleaver. Others jump out of the mouths of Holmes's vain, predatory characters as finely shaped bon mots, puns, and wordplay.

Our story starts in a secluded Vermont hideaway with a showdown between an egotistical TV star and her spiteful ex-husband. She's keenly aware that she's at a crossroads in her career. "I'll be 40 last month," the glamorous Marta Dunhill purrs. But her ex is getting set to blackmail her with a seamy tell-all expose that will demolish her angelic TV image if published. "By the end of Chapter 1," Freddie Bradshaw boasts, "your career will be in Chapter 11."

Irresistible, aren't they?

But both do not survive. The murderer establishes an elaborate alibi and attempts to piggyback onto the work of an at-large serial killer, co-opting his gory trademark, lopping off the victim's thumbs with an electric knife.

Relative calm is restored with the arrival of the rustic constabulary. Sheriff Jane Morton, as portrayed by newcomer Laura Depta, sets up as a plumpish female Columbo with flecks of Mayberry's Sheriff Andy Taylor liberally tossed in. Her nephew Wilton Dekes, peeping out of a flop-eared deer-hunter's cap, comes across as a dumbed-down Barney Fife. Baring as many teeth as possible and mouth-breathing for all he's worth, Mark Scarboro scintillates in the role, looking like a slimmed-down Don Knotts.

The laughs, however, come full-sized.

With five Tony Awards for The Mystery of Edwin Drood in 1985, and an Edgar Award from the Mystery Writers of America for Accomplice, Holmes has repeatedly proven himself a consummate showman. As always, he's very clever in snatching away assumptions we make in Thumbs about who's who and what's what. Tricky too. Somewhat diabolically, Holmes sometimes deals from the bottom of the deck, having a character masquerade for us when the deception should be reserved for the consumption of other characters.

Chip Decker lavishes plenty of wood and paneling in his sturdy, tacky set design; and Hallie Gray points up the melodrama and the showbiz of Thumbs in her lighting. Lon Bumgarner directs at a brisk pace, sustaining the suspense without sacrificing the frothy, comical war of wits.

When this newborn mystery comedy reaches New York, it will ultimately be produced with a cast that fulfills Holmes's concept. Marta will likely be done by an instantly recognizable star with an outsized ego that fits like a glove. Cynthia Farbman, bless her, works hard and well at Marta -- but cannot deliver the requisite drop-dead beauty or the insouciant arrogance of the Tinsel Town icon. Likewise, Tom Scott is quite orotund as Freddie, but probably not very close to the scoundrel this playwright has in mind.

Muscular Bruce Edgar is the only weak link in the cast, not nearly waspish -- or West Coast -- enough as the murderer's boyfriend, Todd Monroe. But as Holmes adds memorably to the roster of fictional female crime solvers, it's nice to see him offering up a gay tennis pro in his rogues' gallery. And Edgar was fairly good letting loose with Todd's full flamboyance.

Our Vermont rustics are a dream. Depta's Sheriff Jane has an explosive intensity that's simply breathtaking. It probably wouldn't hurt if Bumgarner slowed the pace and demanded a folksier first impression, but that's a trifle. And Scarboro's Wilton is probably the best reason Holmes needs to come down to Charlotte before he opens this baby up in New York.

Thumbs is such slickly crafted entertainment that even the curtain call is cleverly scripted. Charlotteans will likely emerge from Duke Courtyard Theatre pinching themselves, wondering how we had the luck to land the first professional production. I daresay it will return for many more -- by professional and amateur groups -- in years to come.

Moving Poets Theater of Dance has kicked off their fifth anniversary season with their latest multidisciplinary fantasia, Macbeth. Choreographed by lead dancer Till Schmidt-Rimpler -- with costumes and original music created by committee -- the Poets' first foray into Shakespeare looks and sounds as good as anything they've ever done.

Performing live up in the balcony, bagpiper David McKenzie was largely responsible for the aptness of Macbeth's music, and recorded snips of Bach's Cello Suites worked nicely for Lady Macbeth.

But that's not to say that this Poets potpourri isn't as willfully wrongheaded as ever. After giving thumbs up to Schmidt-Rimpler's sinuous saturnalia with the Witches Three, I'll have to signal thumbs down for the battle scenes seven. Give me instead the ghost of Banquo, McDuff grieving over all his pretty ones, and all those impossible prophecies coming true.

Likewise, the glorious costume draped over Phillip Sprinkle didn't prevent his portentous declamations from growing tedious. And with nobody to play to, Katherine Harrison's Lady Macbeth never really clicked.

Messy as it was, Macbeth sizzled with the electricity of experimentation. When it did click, it was fantastic. I hope to see an improved edition in time for next Halloween.