This article is taken from the February 2025 issue of The Critic. To get the full magazine why not subscribe? Right now we’re offering five issues for just £10.
After 12 years of eliciting pained laughter and groans in its audiences, the Book of Mormon continues at the Prince of Wales Theatre.
The rambunctious parody of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and satirical take on the clash between Western missionaries’ bright-eyed evangelism and the benighted African community where they seek souls to save, has attracted criticism that it embodies (to cite one broadside of many) “cultural colonialism of the most insidious kind”. Audiences have begged to differ — even in the Mormon faith capital of Salt Lake City — and in several foreign language versions since.
The show is also a handy barometer of changing sensitivities about free speech in comedy, and the wax and wane of trigger points of the past decade and a half.
Given that the project was the offspring of Trey Parker and Matt Stone, creators of the joyfully tasteless adult cartoon sitcom, South Park, a high tolerance for squeamish jokes and bodily references is essential. The downtrodden locals welcome the newcomers with a dance illustrating their poverty-stricken lives and a made-up African motto which translates as “Eff-you God”. And that’s one of the politer parts.
Add sexually transmitted disease and rape jokes galore, a warlord pantomime villain imposing female circumcision and a village doctor with a bizarre genital infection, the more puerile end of the joke menu offset by the zappy wit of the dialogue and the Glengarry Glen Ross-style pressure on the rookie missionaries to up the conversion rate on their hapless mission.
The artistic flair lies in the match of composer (Disney and Avenue Q composer Robert Lopez) and writers who can meld word and music into numbers which pop. So “Turn It Off” is a ditty about arcane homophobic theories, turned into a jaunty forties-style ditty:
Boys should be with girls
That’s Heavenly Father’s plan
So if you ever feel
You’d rather be with a man
Turn it off, like a light switch.
Of course, it is sung by a veteran Elder who is clearly as gay as a Liza Minnelli tribute night.
The production brings us old-fashioned dazzle — tap-dancing missionaries, whose staid suits turn into shiny floor show sparkly attire with a trick of lighting and the “Spooky Mormon Hell Dream” threat that they might end up in the netherworld “with all you Catholics and Jews”.
In its quirky way, it reminds us that satire works when it comes with a heart as well as a barb: the two young pilgrims walk in the tradition of John Bunyan, forced to address their own weaknesses whilst they try to bring others to salvation.
It’s the odd couple of a thousand comedies: Elder Price (Blair Gibson) is narcissistic about his missionary zeal. “You Me, But Mostly Me” is a jazzy evocation of self-centredness. His sidekick Elder Cunningham (Conner Peirson) is a fantastic turn as the overweight, clumsy youngster, prone to lying to get out of trouble, which turns out to be useful, as he reinvents the Old Testament stodge of the original Mormon text to build a community of hope that transcends religious differences.
The sundry oddities of Joseph Smith and Brigham Young’s 19th century mingling of Christianity, folklore and the sheer random bits of the faith get a gentle send-up: “I believe that God lives on a planet called Kolob, I believe that Jesus has his own planet as well. And I believe that the garden of Eden was in Jackson County, Missouri.”
Returning to see it after a decade, the passage of time and now routine excesses of adult TV humour blunt some of the shock factor. It set the tone for a lot of comedy challenging the idea that being offensive is a reason to be cancelled. Wisely, the official Church decided it was better to embrace the marketing opportunities than to oppose it.
Some jokes have worn less well, like the child-rape references: we are more attuned to the curse of the real thing, closer to home than simply a product of practices in backward societies.
After some justified criticism that the portrayal of the Ugandan villagers had a jarring undertone of superiority, the black cast playing the sceptical villagers were given bigger roles, which tilts the play slightly towards the more saccharine character of Nabulungi (a big-voiced Paige Peddie), the bright village girl who sees the potential of engagement with the outsiders.
Frankly, this feels more cosmetic than useful — it probably bought off some Black Lives Matter protest in the US. Overall though, we either accept that the Book of Mormon is about challenging the boundaries of blasphemy and a fantasy version of Africa — or avoid the whole thing.
But its longevity speaks for itself: it has marked a milestone in modern musical theatre history, setting out an irreverent fest of silliness rooted in the oldest story of the clash of belief systems. And it has done so in an era when censorship pressures have seen the arts move in a more censorious direction. Pending our ascent to Kolob, it’s an earthy, earthly tour de force.
