Serial Killers is a comedy sparkling with wit and neat one-liners. It is also a thriller with a surprising twist and a penetrating psychological study of a man in the throes of existential angst, deeply disenchanted with his life and work.
Beneath James Griffin's scintillating dialogue lie seriousconcerns with the nature of reality and illusion and trenchant comment on the state of television in our society.
Because of constraints of time and money, New Zealand premieres often appear to be works in progress, but Colin McColl's production is finished to a high gloss. Its pace builds from a slow start to frenetic activity.
It is hard to imagine a stronger cast more firmly in control of playing writers, producer and actor and the high comedy of their alter egos in video scenes from the medical soap.
Stuart Devenie gives a superb performance as Alan, senior writer at the "Table of Pain," where all yield their most intimate secrets to feed the insatiable demands of the story machine.
Tortured and mean spirited, he finds a twisted path to redemption; along the way Devenie invests him with subtlety, intelligence and seedy charm.
The relationship he forges with Andrew, the actor whose psyche is entwined with the heart-throb surgeon he plays, moves painfully from contempt to ironic acceptance. With pathos, Leighton Cardno evokes the strength of his confusion. Jennifer Ludlam is deliciously gross as the raunchy producer, Elizabeth Hawthorne incisive as Pauline, ex-wife and co-creator of the show with Alan.
Rima Te Wiata invests good-time girl Simone with strength and humorous acceptance and Hera Dunleavy is touchingly naadiïve as the junior Elaine. Oliver Driver stumbles surely in his big boots up the ladder of success.
John Parker's set combines the grungey storyliners' office with high-tech monitors and Elizabeth Whiting's garish soap costumes are in witty contrast to the messy confections of every day.
