The current to-do regarding The Passion of the Christ is hardly the first dust-up about theatrical and cinematic representation of the Greatest Story Ever Told. A few years back, Martin Scorsese was the object of much wrath with The Last Temptation of Christ, itself an adaptation of a controversial decades-old novel. Even Monty Python got a lot of grief for The Life of Brian.

Now we come to Andrew Lloyd Webber, whose Jesus Christ Superstar, with largely banal lyrics by Tim Rice, was, along with Tommy, one of the defining moments of the '70s rock-opera. It was a time when the New Testament seemed ripe for musicalization in everything from Godspell to Bernstein's Mass. And, of course, Webber and Rice had tackled the old book in Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.

Workshop is fond of this property, and they've brought it back to close their season. This new production directed by Scott Blanks is a notable coarsening of material that is not exactly subtle to begin with. Grafting graphic depiction of Jesus' suffering onto what is a basically stylized and symbolic representation of the Gospels is odd to say the least, and it does nothing for the piece.

The singers are strong, led by Christopher Cockrell in retro-leather, full-rock-star mode as Judas; Kristin Abbott as Mary Magdalene; and Timothy Robertson in the title role. Robertson is a buff messiah who would not look out of place on the streets of Chelsea or West Hollywood. However, in his shriller moments (and there are many), he sounds like Howard Dean doing "the scream." Solid in support are Tyron McFarland as an ahistorically sympathetic Pilate; Walter Graham as Caiaphas; and Matthew DeGuire, who gets to do his vaudeville turn as Herod. I wish Tracy Steele had more to do as John, as he is the most convincing player on the stage.

The costumes by Melanie Schuessler range from Grease to Ben-Hur, with Pilate and the centurions looking like refugees from a Buck Rogers serial. Terrance Henderson's choreography is energetic, and the band under Randy Moore's direction is first rate.

The crucifixion scene is ketchupy enough to suit Mel Gibson, with prolonged, full-frontal flagellation. I don't know what Blanks was thinking. The true believers, who might be moved by this, would surely be put off by the campy elements that preceded it. A true horror show, it feels like the Passion play at Oberammergau as staged at Las Vegas or Branson, Mo. With the howling mob of Jews (all in black, naturally) screaming "Crucify him," and the Romans looking like semi-innocent bystanders, this is the sort of thing that usually came before pogroms in Old Europe. It is no more pleasant to watch on Bull Street. As far as this reviewer is concerned, the next coming of Jesus Christ Superstar can't be too distant.