The troupe’s ongoing stock-in-trade consists of bad puns (“Denial is not just a river in Europe”), a daffy literal-mindedness and the sort of jokes calculated to elicit a groan from the house: “Do you love me, Thomas?” asks the Lord.
New this time around is a sourness presumably intended to show what hipsters these visiting Yanks are. Hence, we get cracks at the expense of Andrew Lloyd Webber, Benjamin Netanyahu and even “The English Patient,” as well as tired quips about English food (“spotted dick” and the like) to suggest that these guys haven’t eaten out in London since 1972. More contemporary japes target New Labour and the Spice Girls.
The performers are at their best in bits of business that find Matt Rippy balancing a ladder on his chin, Martin juggling fire and Tichenor squirting bits of the Red Sea into the auditorium. Much is made of Martin’s faltering physique as against company newcomer Rippy’s pulchritude, and it is Rippy who plays all the women, including — yes — God