Jesus Christ Superstar took its final bow in Manila on 31 May after the producers extended its run by a week. For a month, audiences packed Solaire Resort and Casino in Pasay City to watch Andrew Lloyd Webber’s and Tim Rice’s rock opera about faith, fame, power, betrayal and politics.
Most left humming the songs. A few may have recognized this godforsaken country.
One of the reasons Jesus Christ Superstar remains relevant more than half a century after it premiered is that it understands a fundamental truth about public life: Politics is often a zero-sum game. Somebody rises, somebody falls, and every coronation contains the seeds of an execution.
The title character may be Jesus, but the story belongs just as much to Judas, Caiaphas, Pilate and the crowd. Nobody emerges victorious. Everyone pays a price. That is what makes the musical feel less like a religious drama and more like a congressional hearing.
The Philippines has always loved superstars.
We elect them. We follow them. We defend them on social media with the fervor of medieval crusaders such as the Knights Templar. We transform politicians into brands, brands into movements, and movements into articles of faith.
The past elections offered another reminder.
The winners celebrated as though history had ended. The losers spoke as though democracy had. Supporters on both sides treated the results not as a contest among fellow citizens but as a battle between good and evil.
That is the problem with superstar politics. The existence of an idol requires a heretic. Every victory demands a loser, and every triumph must be accompanied by humiliation somewhere else.
The logic is simple and seductive: For us to win, they must lose. It is the play that drives partisan warfare. It is also the logic that drives reality television, boxing matches and online fan clubs. Coincidentally, those are becoming increasingly difficult to distinguish from Philippine politics.
In Jesus Christ Superstar, Judas fears that the movement has become bigger than the message. He worries that celebrity is an overwhelming substance. Looking around today’s political landscape, one suspects his concerns were not confined to first-century Jerusalem.
Entire political careers are now built on visibility rather than achievement. Is it any wonder that you see presidents vlogging like click-hounds? Public office increasingly rewards those who can dominate a news cycle, trend on social media or generate outrage on command. Governance has become secondary to performance.
The crowd, meanwhile, remains the same. It cheers, boos, demands blood and changes its mind. One day a politician is the savior of the republic. The next day, he is the reason for its collapse. The public mood swings with all the stability of cryptocurrency.
Take Pilate, the reluctant administrator of the story. He would fit neatly into modern government. He sees the danger. He understands the stakes. Yet he spends most of his time trying to avoid responsibility for decisions he knows he must eventually make. In fairness, he would also fit neatly into many corporate boardrooms.
What makes Jesus Christ Superstar endure is not its theology but its understanding of power.
The musical recognizes that societies often create impossible expectations for leaders, then punish them for failing to meet those expectations.
The superstar is elevated beyond reason. The fall becomes inevitable. That cycle repeats so often in Philippine politics that it should probably qualify as a renewable resource.
The curtain may have fallen at Solaire, but the production continues elsewhere. The cast changes every election. The stage expands to include television studios, social media platforms and legislative chambers.
The songs are different. The plot remains the same. A nation searching for salvation. Politicians auditioning for the role. Crowds demanding miracles. Rivals plotting betrayals.
In politics, as in Jesus Christ Superstar, somebody is always carrying the cross.
