Diary of a Sentimental Killer

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The Diary of a Sentimental Killer does what it says on the tin: the unquestionably film-noir-esque story of an experienced assassin preparing for one last job while he wrestles with his affection for the femme fatale. Originally written as a novella by Chilean author Luis Sepúlveda, it was adapted into a monologue in Italian by Gianpiero Borgia, and then retranslated into English for Borgia’s one-man show by Paul Grens.

Film noir has the peculiar characteristic of having precious little substance and a great deal of style. Every instance of the genre involves the same mechanisms: the lone, jaded narrator vs. the uncaring world, the inescapability of fate, and how damn cool it is to kill people in black-and-white to a jazzy soundtrack. To say, therefore, that the plot is formulaic, the themes trite, and the outcome predictable is no real criticism; it is merely to say that it is successfully noir.

The script is elegant and occasionally beautiful, and there is no denying Borgia’s personal charm. Variations on Paolo Conte’s classic ‘Via con me’, seamlessly fade into the most important moments of the monologue, making the experience irresistibly swish in a way that only Italians ever manage. However, Borgia is just shy of fluent in English, and the delivery comes off as if he’s learnt it phonetically, resulting in small but fairly frequent mispronunciations and moments of unintelligibility. In a play so reliant on impeccable style, even a single such imperfection is enough to dissipate the atmosphere and lessen the impact of the piece.