‘ There’s blood on my Burberry !’- American Psycho causes a splashing on Broadway
Audience members for the Broadway musical version of Bret Easton Elliss Wall Street fable are regretting not packing Patrick Bateman-style plastic ponchos
Name : American Psycho. Age : 25. Appearance : American. Psychotic.
Good heavens, are the adventures of murderous-or-possibly-just-delusional investment banker Patrick Bateman by then enfant terrible Bret Easton Ellis a quarter of a century old already ? They are indeed.
I feel old. Although I dont appear it, thanks to my assiduous application of honey almond body scrubbing, water-activated gel soap and herb mint facial masks. Thats from the cinema, but kudos.
Is the book being republished on this unlikely anniversary? No. It is being marked by something wholly more splendid, albeit accidentally.
Explain. I shall. A musical version, first staged in the UK at the Almeida, is previewing on Broadway.
Replete with sex, slayings and executions, cannibalism, necrophilia, narcissism, exfoliation, business cards and torture, I hope and trust? Of course. And blood. Lots and lots of fake blood. Some of which has aroused complaints.
Ah, people objecting to the violence? Can they still not see that the whole thing is a millefeuille of meta-jokery and viciously brilliant satirical commentary on the worst elements of late western consumer capitalism? That the violence is self-consciously cartoonish , not naturalistic? Its not that.
Oh. What is it then? The fake blood has been splashing representatives from the front rows. One girl approached the manager of the Gerald Schoenfeld theatre in tears, to display him her stained sweater, Burberry cashmere scarf and Louis Vuitton bag.
Thats too good. Thats too good. Are you sure she wasnt a plant by Bret EE? Apparently not. Thats just where we are now. Through the looking glass, round the bend and up shit creek without a pastiche paddle or hope in hell of redemption, soon to be beached for ever on Post-Post-Post Modern Island, population: a handful of fragments of whatever customarily masquerades as You.
Did the manager put them all in to soak for her? No, but he told her they would pay the cleaning bill.
They should have worn plastic ponchos like Bateman does for hacking up prostitutes and that. Stella MacCartney should get in quick and start pumping out decorator pac-a-macs. I am sure that someone, somewhere, is already on that.
Do say : What an unknowingly acute critique of the mess were in. Dont say : I opt Singin in the Rain.
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