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Bill Bryden's production of The Mysteries, taking us from the Creation to the Last Judgment, is back. First conceived in the Peter Hall era, this three-part Promenade production now dignifies the Trevor Nunn regime and even at the end of a 12-hour day, leaves one exhilarated. But why? Partly because of the alliterative vigour of Tony Harrison's poetry, partly because of the air of communal celebration, but even more because the event taps into our residual memories both of the Christian story and of a vibrant working-class culture.
Judged purely as theatre, Bryden's production is stunning. What is striking is that each of the three plays has its own distinct tone. The Nativity, whisking us from Genesis to the birth of Christ, is full of earthy realism: literally so as the naked Adam and Eve arise from a mound of soil. The Passion is about the sombre pain and physical toil of the Crucifixion. And Doomsday offers an apocalyptic vision of God's disappointment in man and of the end of the world: medievally, the good souls are saved while the bad are swallowed by the mouth of hell.
But, if each play is distinct, there is an amazing consonance between Harrison's rock-hard poetry and Bryden and designer William Dudley's use of industrial materials. Following the practice of the Mystery-cycle writers, Harrison gives the language a physical reality: "Bursar was I, balancing t'brethren's budgeting book," cries Judas, in a line that both locates the character and conjures up an instant image. And this is exactly matched by the use of forklift trucks, braziers, miners' lamps, waste disposal units and, finally, the vision of a giant Ferris wheel bearing souls in torment: one that now seems uncomfortably close to the millennial wheel a few hundred yards along the South Bank.
Why, however, are we so moved by the event? Not simply because it is great theatre, or because we feel, particularly when prome nading, that we are participants in a huge party. It is because of the nature of the story. The Archbishop of Canterbury talked recently of an "allergy to religion". Yet several times recently I have seen supposedly secular audiences caught up in biblical narratives. There is a classic example here, when Christ's dead mother is borne in a coffin to the accompaniment of a haunting processional tune from John Tams and the band. Suddenly the coffin bursts open to reveal Mary, "maiden bright". A coup de theatre, yes; but it also has an element of the miraculous that pierces our rational defences.
But the production's cloth-cap-and-overalls style not only reminds us that these plays were created by craftsmen. It also evokes a vanishing working-class culture with its own skills, traditions and resentments. A perfect example comes when the soldiers who have crucified Christ draw lots for his purple robe and one cries, "The gaffer wins again and we get bugger all". Even beyond that, the production evokes a time when theatre itself was an act of communal celebration: in every sense, it is about paradises lost.
It is also a highly skilled production, performed by a 20-strong ensemble in which Jack Shepherd, part of the original team, is a tower of malign strength as Lucifer, Judas and Satan. But David Bradley's austere, sorrowful God, Joe Duttine's modestly rueful Jesus, Sue Johnston's nagging Mrs Noah and pinafored Mary Mother, and William Gaunt's aldermanic Herod are outstanding. Over the years actors have come and gone in this long-lasting production. Its durability, however, is not just a tribute to its superb theatricality but to the way it answers a deep-felt spiritual need.
• In rep. Box office: 0171-452 3000.
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