Gemma @ 'American Psycho' - This Is Not An Exit
What’s it about?
American Psycho is about Patrick Bateman, an attractive 26-year-old man living in Manhattan in the 80s. Patrick Bateman works on Wall Street and puts his appearance before much else in his life. When he isn’t working, clubbing, or dining out at elite restaurants, he spends his time satisfying his constant bloodlust via the torture and murder of innocent people.
AND it’s set to music.
My experience:
For the past decade, I’ve had a fascination with serial killers and crime in general. It all started with Dexter. Once I began watching the show, I was hooked. Pretty soon I had an encyclopedia on serial killers sitting on my bedside table. Needless to say, I was already a fan of the Brett Easton Ellis novel, American Psycho, and the movie (featuring Christian Bale) of the same name. What excellent windows into the life of one of America’s favorite fictional psychopaths! And so I was very interested to see how the story I was so familiar with would be translated onto the stage.
From my seat on the mezzanine level, I could see what had to be the “orchestra” in the two farthest box seats, opposite from each other across the theatre. There was no pit. As opposed to instruments, the musicians were equipped with computers.
The stage was bare except for a sheet of transparent plastic. The first memorable image of the show was the shadowy silhouette of Patrick Bateman murdering a woman, complete with the lady’s screams and a generous splattering of blood over the plastic that made me flinch.
Yikes. What did I get myself into?
Patrick Bateman walked on stage in only his underwear which made it hard not to notice how sculpted his body was. He knew it too, and frequently made references to his buffness as he described his extensive morning routine in elaborate detail. He was terrified of looking old or tacky, and his shallowness when combined with his wealth didn’t seem like an exaggeration.
Patrick described his expensive Manhattan condo in detail, dating himself as he bragged about his “impressive” 30-inch television with freeze-frame capabilities and his oh-so-hi-tech Walkman, which looked giant and impossible to carry. Earlier in Patrick’s opening monologue, as he had dressed himself, a white buttoned-down shirt drenched in blood was revealed to the audience. The opening number ended with Patrick shooting prop-hundred dollar bills several feet into the crowd. How badly I wished I was in the orchestra so I could grab some as souvenirs.
It had been a while since I had read the book or seen the movie, but I got the impression that the show was honoring the novel while still paying tribute to iconic scenes from the film. When Patrick fumed with jealousy at his co-worker’s superior business card, I inwardly squealed. I could sense something was coming, and I wasn’t left hanging when the cast erupted into a performance of a song fittingly titled, “You’re Such a Card.”
I was surprised at how deeply I felt throughout the show. This was a serial killer and in many ways, I rooted for him. But he wasn’t all I rooted for. I desperately wanted his sweet, insecure secretary, Jean, to walk away from Patrick’s influence unscathed. Thankfully, she did.
It was easy to remain indifferent when Patrick killed Upper East Side, spoiled brats, virtually indistinguishable from one another in personality and character. But when he went after innocents like homeless men on the street and prostitutes, it was hard not to feel kind of cringe-y about the whole thing.
American Psycho was really an extreme look at a world lost to capitalist greed. But how extreme was it? I even felt incriminated. How many times have I walked past homeless people in New York City, fleeing subway cars to escape their stench and ignoring, even getting frustrated by their pleas for help? I’ve thought less of the oldest profession in the world, prostitution, and have put myself in a higher ranking than those who sell their bodies for a profit because I would never do such a thing.
The final words of the Musical, “This is not an exit,” rang especially true. This may not be the 80s anymore, but an unquenchable thirst for money and a desire to look young powers much of our lives, even mine, to a degree.
Previously published on the HuffPost contributors’ network on 06/19/2016 11:15 pm ET
