John Safran Versus God

By Larissa Dubecki

He's back. The skinny Jewish boy with a predilection for making the personal vendetta public is taking on God - in all his different flavours - in this eight-part, magazine-style series. The global search for the Big Guy is on, starting with the usual monotheistic suspects, on down to the lesser-known, but PR-friendly, Native Indian peyote variety and taking in the egregious KKK version. But like his previous effort, John Safran's Musical Jambouree, John Safran Versus God is in many ways primarily about John Safran, a solipsistic journey of discovery cementing his bravura reputation as the enfant terrible of Australian television.

Luckily for him and us, then, that he possesses the necessary charisma to carry off the now-trademark stunts that elicit equal parts hilarity and discomfort, and the always-present question: "Should I be laughing at this?". See, for example, the take-no-prisoners introduction to this week's episode, where Safran attempts to have a fatwa placed on Channel Ten personality Rove McManus by radical British Muslim cleric Sheikh Omar Bakri Muhammad. The evidence presented against Rove is fabricated - the pseudo-real vendetta is based on the (re-enacted) reversal of fortunes that saw Rove finding commercial network fame and Safran, SBS. Will the scary Sheikh Omar take kindly to the news that his beliefs have been ridiculed? Will Rove see the joke in his own personal death threat? It's a morally questionable, squirm-inducing sequence, saved by the subjective fact that it is side-grabbingly funny.

Other segments betray more masochism than sadism, including a visit to a Japanese Zen Buddhist monastery where the presiding monk is fond of corporal punishment as a way to enlightenment. John Safran Versus God (it could be retitled John Safran's Religious Jamboree) builds on the same themes (and the same grab-bag of tactics) seen since Safran's Race Around the World days, from ambush-journalism to satirically charged reportage, delivered in his trademark whiny rant. Regular segments include the weekly road test - this week it's the Peyote Church of God, where spiritual insight is gained through drinking the hallucinogenic, vomit-inducing cactus of the same name - and a reverie on possible developments in Channel Nine programming when a Scientology-leaning Jamie Packer takes over.

Safran is front and centre in his universe and the success of the show depends on whether his outre personality amuses or rankles. For my money, God might defeat him in hand-to-hand single combat, but when it comes to satire Safran's the clear winner