Offoffoff.com
Offoffoff.com
A bloodied, shirtless, seemingly deranged prophet bursts into a backwoods cabin and then bursts into verse in "The Gospel of Cyrus According to Cyrus.
By JOSHUA TANZER
For those of us who suspect that it's a thin line between a religious visionary and a psychotic, there's "The Gospel of Cyrus According to Cyrus," a one-man, one-musician show at Theater for the New City.
Haggard, shirtless, bloodied, with a look of violence in his eyes, Cyrus (Jessejames Locorriere) bursts into an old backwoods cabin as if the hounds are at his heels. He grips a long flintlock rifle and holds it firmly against his groin while he dares God and man to bring on his final destruction - not the last time that sexual and religious fanatacism will be intertwined in this play. And he does so, we quickly notice, in rhymed couplets.
Cyrus recounts his hardscrabble childhood, his dysfunctional upbringing and his inspiration by God. God has given him a strange but nicely achievable mission: get drunk and stay that way. This doesn't rank with truth and salvation as personal missions from God, but it does somehow bring him a fanatical following. Of course, having a fanatical following can be a dangerous thing if they turn on you, which seems to be what has happened to the deranged, gun-toting, whiskey-swilling Cyrus.
Our boy not only spouts rhyming verse, he also sings the occasional country tune to further dramatize his shocking tale, with accompaniment by singer-guitarist Rowland Stebbins. The music, along with the timeless quality of the pre-technology shack and the antique rifle, adds to the all-American flavor of this peculiar but evocative fable.
