THE ROCKY HORROR SHOW is still a triumph of form over content. The story is piffle; the presentation is all. What’s surprising is how well the thing works, 40 years later.

It was titillating when new: a naughty poke in the ribs, a leering urge to loosen up, an alluring invitation to walk the wild side. Now, in a new stage production at the Old Globe Theatre, it’s just a dear old toy that’s impossible to dump even though hard use over a long time has bent it all out of shape.

The crude and cheesy old black/white monster films that provided the ROCKY esthetics are receding rapidly into the moldy past, replaced with chemically colored electronic effects that leap out of the screen on demand. And the kinky sex of 1973 is now normal stuff in the classroom, the board room, halls of government and even the dinner table.

Tattoos, to choose just one example, are totally without exotic impact when everybody has one. Trans-sexuals gather in handsome halls for club activity and gender bending on stage is sinking into cliché.

Yet ROCKY HORROR perseveres, worshipped as high holy camp by generation after generation, welcomed warmly by a Globe opening night audience which included three dozen or so enthusiasts costumed for the occasion and ready with responses to favorite lines in the script.

The theatre cannot take credit for such devotion. Blame (or credit) instead the 1976 film version, THE ROCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW, an instant cult classic of awesome proportions, dwarfing the influence of such similar (though different) favorites as CASABLANCA, DEEP THROAT and THE SOUND OF MUSIC.

As is widely known, midnight showings of THE ROCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW attract faithful crowds of costumed followers who wield props and additional dialogue as if participating in high holy ritual. As with most ancient rituals, time has rounded the edges and faded the color separations. Yet the faithful still flock to another showing, finding fulfillment in form, not content.

The Globe production, staged with energy rampant and focus tight by James Vasquez, makes good compromises with the faithful fans, accustomed to the entirely predictable screen dialogue. A couple of the actors – Matt McGrath as the head freak and David Andrew Macdonald as the suave narrator – have license to engage the audience in repartee but the others DO NOT. This helps keep the texture and tone of the spoof without freezing out the audience and I think it’s an excellent compromise for these latter days.

(I don’t recall how the 1974 American premiere was staged in Los Angeles, long before the grip of the cult. There may have been some exchanges with the audience but mostly I just remember the steamy, licentious insinuations and the musky atmosphere of abandon. And NO nudity. Then or now.)

The dark and stormy night lives in Donyale Werle’s arrogant decor, pieced together from stuff found discarded in the alley behind the old Republic Pictures studios. Rui Rita’s lighting is just as jagged, prone to rude flashes and brooding pools. Costumes are what the piece is really about so Emily Rebholz gets to poke and every seam of certain classical fetishes, getting most (but not all) of the programmed gasps. Frankly, it’s no longer easy to get a real rise out of spectators faced with lean young men in garter belts.

For identification purposes, the story goes something like this: Brand and Janet’s car breaks down on that dark and stormy night, near an old castle. The folks inside turn out to be aliens from another planet, Janet, parked here temporarily, perhaps, to savor Earthly sexual delights. The headmaster of the house is one Frank ‘N’ Furter (talk about weary puns!) who not only seduces Brad and Janet separately with the same dialogue but also constructs the gorgeously muscled golem toy of the title. OK?

McGrath makes Furter a tired, jaded libertine running his dude raunch more out of momentum than motivation. He looks a bit wimpy for such a dominator but he does flick precisely the lash of control, even over his audience participants.

Jeanna de Waal has a tight, athlete’s body and a fierce concentration as Janet but it’s a part that really deserves a classic gumdrop cutie to set up innocence for its fall. Kelsey Kurz’s Brad is more like it, thanks to an understanding of “gee whiz” and the way he wears those glasses.

Sydney James Harcourt is an astonishing physical specimen as Rocky and sweetly bewildered at the world he never made. Macdonald, the narrator, is a craftsman with an innuendo and a plausible bit of fantasy maturity for the mix. Among the others, Nadine Isenegger stands out as Columbia, the soft-core spook with the dancing duties.

Richard O’Brien, who wrote the book, lyrics and music in addition to playing a role, must still be stunned at the way this has all morphed. For my part, though, it’s the music that impresses the most as we near the fourth decade. It’s the usual assortment of stuff, now familiar from hundreds of shows constructed since with perhaps an O’Brien tune or two in the back of the mind. As performed here by Mike Wilkins and a very solid rock quartet, the score is exactly what’s needed even if I couldn’t remember any of the songs in the parking lot.

I was all ready to be grumpy about dragging out such fluff from another era instead of building something fresh. But, whoa, this contraption still connects!

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