The title and scary poster image promise carnage, and carnage we certainly get. Hurrah! Nothing like watching other people behaving very badly to make us feel better about ourselves.

Lara Macgregor and four talented, committed actors deliver a polished, high-energy production that demonstrates how cathartic it is to watch the veneer of civilisation painfully scraped off smugly privileged protagonists.

The two pairs of obnoxious parents, ostensibly meeting to sort out the playground incident in which one of their eleven-year-olds has bashed the other, would provide fine material for Nigel Latta’s Politically Incorrect Parenting. They are painfully polite to each other at the start, playing snobbish games of one-upmanship over art-books and pretentious desserts. But under the influence of (you guessed it) alcohol, they quickly reveal themselves to be more childish than their children. 

School bullying, currently news in New Zealand, is a real concern, and the situation could have been treated quite seriously, to examine the cause of such violence and how to resolve it. But French playwright Yasmina Reza has concocted a Comedy of Manners: good, as Moliere said, for ‘the correction of social absurdities’ rather than the redemption of human nature.

Well, social absurdities need whacking too, and this witty exposé of middle class hypocrisy provides more than one cringe of recognition. No doubt most parents have been here. How do well-bred civilised people deal with the embarrassment of bad behaviour on the part of their offspring? Not, one hopes, by turning into savages themselves. Ha!

God of Carnage (like Reza’s Art) has been a huge hit in USA and Britain as well as France, and seems likely to be as successful here. (If I have a preference for Art it is because the premise is even more absurd. A fortune for a plain white painting? But people do fight for their children.) The response of Saturday’s audience was gleeful rather than appalled, which makes me wonder whether, in comparatively unpretentious NZ, the slipping of the manners mask is less shocking.

Director Lara Macgregor has ensured a cracking pace for the smart dialogue, and the physical comedy is superbly choreographed and executed: not just because Macgregor is inventive in movement and frenetic stage business, but because she understands when to stop. There are some perfect moments of absolute stillness.

Behaviour deteriorating as characters get drunk may be something of a cliché, but it works undeniable social and theatrical magic. The actors display considerable skill in remaining intelligible as language, movement, clothes and relationships disintegrate. Although the situations are often manic and hilarious they take their characters seriously, and avoid obviously playing for laughs. 

The actors operate as a tight ensemble, but the women’s parts provide more scope, more opportunities for amusing subtext, as the ladies are less likely to be rudely direct. They also have further to fall, and this is most apparent in Claire Dougan’s exquisite performance as Veronique. A prim-mouthed liberal who writes about genocide in Africa, she genuinely tries to achieve restorative justice for the children, and her decline is painfully funny to watch. 

Barbara Power is similarly impressive as Annette, constantly humiliated in her marriage to the ghastly lawyer Alain. [Spoiler alert?] It seems perfectly credible that she is stressed to the point where, in one of the play’s highlights, she projectile vomits most spectacularly, all over Veronique’s precious art books. [-ends]

John Glass is convincingly arrogant as the unscrupulous lawyer glued to his cellphone, advising his pharmaceutical client on how to handle the PR disaster of a new wonder drug having unfortunate side effects.

Phil Vaughan makes an energetic Michel, a self-made man almost likeable until he alienates us with an account of his ruthless disposal of their pet hamster. In a neat plot-link, it transpires the dubious drug has been prescribed to a close member of his family, the other off-stage ‘phone character’.

Most exciting is the interaction between them all: accusations and recriminations fly and the cast form temporary alliances, then turn unexpectedly on each other. How grown up are the grown ups? When the God of Carnage rules, the answer is, not at all. Their children’s row erupted over rejection from a gang, and it seems each adult character desperately wants the support of a gang – marriage or class or gender-selected.

Reza suggests we are alone. But not too seriously. This is farce after all, and you don’t always want your thoughts provoked.

The set, by Peter King and Matt Best, is gorgeous, its clever angles serving the frenzied action perfectly. A minimalist split-level lounge with glowing red couches is backed by a serenely curving white wall and one huge piece of striking photo-art. And of course there are the tulips. Intimate and classy. Martyn Roberts’ lighting enhances the sophistication of the set, the costumes by Maryanne Wright-Smith deconstruct cleverly, and I love the brash honk of the cellphone! 

Viciously funny with its dashingly fast pace and snappy dialogue, God of Carnage had the audience rocking with laughter, and the descent into chaos provides a lively evening out.
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If the barbarism of Dafur is at one end of the scale, surely Michel’s and Veronique’s stylish Paris home is at the other. So why does the place look so much like a battlefield?

Alain and Annette have come to discuss, rationally of course, a playground stoush involving their sons. For Veronique, who’s writing a book on the African conflict, this is an opportunity to practise enlightened conflict resolution – especially as her son is so clearly the injured party.

Almost immediately, and despite or perhaps because of Veronique’s incisive reasonableness, the veneer of civilisation begins to crumble. Cracks widen to gulfs as rum helps old and new animosities to emerge. Alliances shift and tensions deepen into hatred. No, it isn’t quite like Dafur and no-one actually dies. But it’s messily disturbing – and at the same time distressingly funny.

Director Lara Macgregor takes the inbuilt comic possibilities in Yasmina Reza’s cruelly clever script (translated from the original French by Christopher Hampton) and uses them to reinforce the savagery. Actors Phil Vaughan (Michel), Barbara Power (Annette), John Glass (Alain) and especially Claire Dougan (Veronique) give accomplished and very physical performances, keeping horrified smiles on our faces as politeness, loyalty and love disintegrate.

Unusual in its blend of sophistication and brutality, God of Carnage manages to be, simultaneously, a fascinating psychological exploration and a bleak though incompletely developed commentary on international affairs. It has won awards in the UK, the US and New Zealand. This is a play to laugh at at the theatre, and also one with plenty of ideas to take home and endlessly worry about. Recommended. 
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