An elderly couple is terrorized by their television set. Sound like Stephen King? Try again. Christopher Durang, modern bard of the dark comedy, brings us his persistent television whose violent and tasteless programming reflects the horrific state of modern society.

Although Media Amok's concept is an intriguing one, Durang fails to develop it into more than that. Thin writing and uninspired humor, uncharacteristic of Durang's usual sharp-wittedness, leave us only with the television gimmick, and it is simply not enough to sustain an entire evening in the theater.

"Poor us," gripes gray haired Cecilia (Anne Pitoniak),"the ozone layer is disappearing, we don't know what to do about nuclear waste. Should we try to distract ourselves and watch a little television?" She and husband Nigel (Alvin Epstein) turn on the television, only to find a scorching intensification of their worries in the coarse, vulgar, and manipulative personalities who grace their set.

Enter foul-mouthed Morton Hell (Steven Black) and his four Yahoos (living incarnations of Morton Downey Jr. and his obnoxious studio audience); Felicia Falana (Christina Estabrook), a Sally Jesse Raphael-like monster woman whose concern for her interviewees is as genuine as her hair piece; and Phylicia Butterworth (Starla Benford) and Chuck Buck (Michael Starr), early morning talk show hosts who sit on giant coffee cups and are equipped with saccharine sweet salutations.

They are joined by a motley crew of transvestites, transsexuals, presidential candidates (George Bush and "Some Tired Old Liberal"), heartless right to lifers, leather clad feminists and a bevy of other ingratiating characters (35 in totem), all played by a very versatile 12 member ensemble.

Durang aims to devour them all, and a sumptuous feast it should be. However, his character assassinations go too often for the obvious, never really piercing the level of sophomoric, imitative humor one might find in an amateur parody.

Morton Hell curses. Forty "fucks" in the first five minutes of his appearance. Fine. But that is all he does. Durang makes little attempt at any satire more insightful than this. Of all Morton's lines the one which the audience seems to find most amusing is his holler at a reticent nun, "Get off my show you fucking, fuck face penguin."

Even when Durang does come through with a witty line, he buries it in script which takes the joke too far and detracts from its effectiveness. "Sorry, I don't mean to act like I have an opinion," says a momentarily sincere Felicia Falana to her TV audience. Funny, really funny. But when she goes on and on, asserting, among other things that she "agrees with everyone," the line just loses it humor. By stating the obvious in what seems like a deliberate over-kill of the lines, Durang weakens some of his best satire.

The play certainly has moments which work, and some on-target performances which are really fun to watch. Christine Estabrook creates a delightfully caustic Falana who is rapidly loosing her cool after 20 consecutive hours on the television, and Michael Starr has the sleazy, pretty boy Chuck down to a science. The eventual crossing between "reality" and the world of TV--when Cecilia becomes trapped in the television set after "accidentally walking into a talk show"--is truly frightening.

Durang and director Les Waters do manage to create an intolerably grating atmosphere through the use of screeching sirens, loud music, and strobe lights. However, blasting loud music and shouting curses does not a clever satire make. And unfortunately for Water's concept, this pandemonium makes the evening a little too unpleasent for an audience which, after all, has chosen to go to the theater rather than watch it on