The Voices review: Ryan Reynolds leads a delirious black comedy

Director: Marjane Satrapi; Screenwriter: Michael R Parry; Starring: Ryan Reynolds, Gemma Arterton, Anna Kendrick, Jacki Weaver, Adi Shankar, Ricardia Bramley; Running time: 101 mins; Certificate: 15

Though he looks like a conventional leading man, Ryan Reynolds joyfully grabs every opportunity to send up that image, going as far back as Just Friends (2005) when he donned a fat suit. That means he's always fun to watch (even in the ill-fated Green Lantern) and he is perfectly cast in this deliciously delirious black comedy; ostensibly the sort of clean-cut guy a girl would take home to meet mother - except, he's more likely to cut a girl up before getting to that stage in a relationship.

Reynolds is ably supported, too, by Gemma Arterton and Anna Kendrick who are so much more than easy prey, just as Jerry (Reynolds) is more than the sum of his parts - and the parts of some other people, stocked in his fridge. For all his pathological flaws, he's a nice guy who never seems to get angry despite the stress of working in a small-town factory and being stood up by HR hottie Fiona (a brilliantly twinkly-eyed Arterton). She humours him, but it's understandable because his boundless optimism is completely unnerving.

It quickly becomes apparent that Jerry channels his pent-up frustrations through his ginger tabby Mr Whiskers (cheekily voiced by Reynolds with a Scottish twang) while his St Bernard Bosco (Reynolds again, doing a deep, mellifluous drawl) is the angel on his shoulder. They tell him to do things, but on some level, Jerry knows that talking pets are a manifestation of deep psychosis. Still, he won't take his meds.

Iranian director Marjane Satrapi (in a wild change of pace from her breakout animated film Persepolis) illustrates precisely why Jerry feels that way. Without overdoing the visual effects, his world is a much brighter, Disneyesque place when he isn't dosed up. Otherwise, the putrefying flesh in his apartment creates a dark cloud over his head and it slowly encroaches, creating an atmosphere of squirm-inducing dread.

Psychologists may take issue with the precise nature of Jerry's condition and the guilty feelings he tries to repress, but it's the first kill - seemingly accidental - that is a tripping point for the film, almost too daft in its slapstick ineptitude. That said, Satrapi does pull off the tricky balancing act of flitting from the broadly comedic to the downright creepy with striking flourishes, like Jerry's recurring nightmare featuring a beady-eyed sock puppet. But the device that'll surely elevate this film to a cult classic is Jerry cheerfully shooting the breeze with the disembodied heads of his victims.

Reynolds has never been more charming or spine-chilling - often simultaneously - in what is a genuinely multifaceted tragicomic performance.

Reynolds has never been more charming or spine-chilling - often simultaneously - in what is a genuinely multifaceted tragicomic performance. The actresses who end up in the fridge, too, revel in the opportunity to play with his perceptions of them and rather than being misogynistic, or overly hammy in its Freudian subtext, Jerry's final attack poignantly reveals his anxieties. Oh, and there's a fab song-and-dance number to look out for, too, because serial killing doesn't have to be a nasty business.