Chicago at the Bruce Mason Theatre

Charismatic Michael Barrymore stars with Tina Cross (left) and Ellen Simpson in an alluring glimpse of the Jazz Age.

There are many reasons for the phenomenal success of Chicago. It has great tunes, is an ideal star-vehicle and offers an alluring glimpse of the Jazz Age.

More importantly, it deals with ideas that are relevant for contemporary audiences - the obsession with celebrity culture, manipulation of the media and the appealing notion that it is possible to continuously re-invent yourself.

Beneath the show's sassy surface is a thematic complexity that should be the envy of many high-brow plays with far more serious ambitions.

With a straightforward plot and stock characters, the musical creates an ironic and densely self-referencing world in which everyone is busily engaged in creating and re-creating their own narratives.

Chicago is a story about the construction of stories.

The current musical version is itself a kind of palimpsest inscribed over the 1942 Ginger Rogers' film, a 1926 stage play and the originating text, which was a series of newspaper articles about murder, adultery and show business from the Chicago Tribune of 1924.

The appearance of Michael Barrymore in the pivotal role of Billy Flynn is an inspired piece of casting that adds another layer of irony to the mix.

Barrymore's character is the king of razzle-dazzle and, as he dreams up ever more inventive ways of manipulating the media, one can't help reflecting on his own, real-life liaisons with celebrity and the tabloid press.

Barrymore has a charismatic stage presence and a level of professionalism that other cast members struggle to match.

He is totally at home in the limelight - happy to make himself appear ridiculous, and relaxed enough to ad lib about the production's dodgy sound system.

It is a brilliant performance that lifts the show well above its semi-professional roots.

Tina Cross delivers an energetic and spirited performance as veteran chorus girl Velma Kelly, but other cast members seem ill-at-ease with hard-boiled cynicism of their quintessentially American characters.

The problem is exacerbated by the director's determination to imitate the kind of staging you would expect from a big-budget Broadway musical.

A more satisfying result might emerge if the actors were allowed to re-interpret aspects of their characters in a Kiwi idiom.

It is wonderful that a Manawatu-based company should launch a production on such an ambitious scale but it would be even more wonderful if a little bit of the Manawatu could find its way into Chicago. The audience certainly seemed willing to accept such a possibility.

The most palpable feeling of connection came when Dean O'Flaherty finished his heartfelt rendition of Mister Cellophane.

For a brief moment the American accent slipped away and he apologised for taking up the audience's time with an inflection that perfectly captured that inimitably New Zealand quality of self-effacement.