American Psycho

I saw another Patrick Bateman today on 10th Avenue. This time, it was an Aryan god, his blond hair coiffed within a millimeter, tight-fit blue-sky business suit, tighter bod and arrogant air of studied indifference.

In recent years, Hell's Kitchen has been overrun with Patrick Batemans. Of course, none of them are really doppelgangers of the anti-hero of "American Psycho," Bret Easton Ellis' gore-fueled novel of Reagan-Era wretched high-end consumer excess. Hell, as far as I know, that guy on 10th Avenue could just as soon be volunteering at night at a shelter for the homeless as he could be butchering them, like the fictional Bateman.

Even so, the neighborhood invasion of swarms of metrosexuals, this century's version of '80s �ber-yuppies, drives home how eerily prescient Ellis' dystopian vision of a Manhattan filled with Haves and Have Nothings was.

Ellis' book was widely reviled as literary misogynist snuff porn, but over the years people have come to their senses and accepted it as a Swiftean satire of a boom era dominated by a president whose economic policy was that if the 1 percent get to keep their money it would "trickle down" to the rest of us; and a certain "short-fingered vulgarian" real estate developer, as Spy magazine named Donald Trump.

Bateman is an Ivy League-educated investment banker who, like his work posse, seems to spend all of his time comparing business cards, trying to get a table at the latest restaurant that serves dishes made up of random words like "reduction," and snorting coke off toilet seats at Tunnel.

He sees Trump's nouveau riche ostentation and blowhard business tactics as the epitome of the "Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous" ethos, something to aspire to. That this man is now a candidate for president indicates how deeply Bateman and his status-obsessed ilk have permeated the culture.

So it would seem the perfect time for another look at "American Psycho." Like Christian Bale, who played Bateman in the movie version, Benjamin Walker has the body of an underwear model (which is good, because he's in his tighty-whities for much of the time). He's also a damn fine singer with the split-second timing necessary for this quick-moving production.

The Broadway musical version of "American Psycho" is also blessed with a terrific, on-target score by Duncan Sheik. In "Spring Awakening," Sheik's emo-inflected score perfectly reflected teenage angst in fin-de-siecle Germany.

Here, he incorporates samples and fragments of familiar '80s pop with original songs that give a nod to synth-rock while sounding entirely fresh and new. The first song, "Selling Out," is a dead ringer for the Pet Shop Boys -- high praise indeed. Other songs refer slyly to Big Country, the Thompson Twins and other '80s Brit acts.

The strobe-like lighting that frequently engulfs the stage, along with chicly spare sets and Sheik's mixes of his songs ("arrangements" doesn't quite fit here) perfectly mimic the era of when Tech referred to design and West Chelsea was where you went clubbing instead of gallery hopping. The choreography expertly recreates aerobic back-up dancing, a Jane Fonda-workout aerobic workout, moonwalking and goofy white man disco dancing.

The other characters are ciphers, especially Patrick's boho-slacker brother and matronly tipsy mother. The one a wan parody of everything un-Patrick; the other, a stock WASP matron in the Barbara Bush mold.

The costumes, too, neatly reflect an era dominated by fashion porn like Nancy Reagan red Adolpho suits, Adam Ant pirate runway and Armani business suits (although Bateman wouldn't have worn Ralph Lauren underwear; hot bods only undressed for success in Calvins).

Director Rupert Goold and his production team deserve credit for a lightning-fast production as tight as Bateman's much-admired (by himself above all) bod. The sudden turns from languid eating, fucking, Hamptons sunbathing and dancing to Bateman's slasher orgies of blood are as quick as Lypsinka's diva-to-demon persona changes.

The first act is the build-up, as most first acts are. We meet Patrick as he reveals his innermost thoughts about skin products and treatment, proper sun-tanning procedure, and, above all, whom he is wearing. Even so, he comes across as profound compared to his girlfriend, who gives "vapid" a bad name.

Included in his "Entourage"-style entourage are a closeted lunk who mistakenly believes Patrick made a pass (he didn't, but he's been banging the guy's fianc�e). His BFF, for reasons known only to the director, is played as an exact imitation of Snake, the recurring street thug on "The Simpsons."

That's not the only questionable thing about his production. The first act closing number is hardly the usual curtain rouser (which makes "Les Miz," a frequent target of jibes, seem more than a little unfair).

There are a few other quibbles here and there, but the real problem with this show is Roberto Aguirre-Sacasa's book.

Ellis made sure the reader came away from the book, written in first person, unsure about whether Patrick's serial-killer-spree fantasies are really happening or in his head. He stacks the deck by making his protagonist, like Jonathan Swift's Gulliver, a highly unreliable source; the movie, likewise.

That said, it should be noted that the first person works quite well on stage, however, where breaking the Fourth Wall is the perfect metaphor for Patrick's interior monologues as he tries to cope with his descent into madness.

Here, we're given a sudden, abrupt revelation that seems more like a way to get the audience out before the backstage crew clock in overtime than a satisfying ending. Nor does it help that the second act is pretty much a mess. A sequence of random episodes drop in plot point here and there. Like a stage version of that God-awful music video-type rapid crosscutting that ruined film musicals like "Moulin Rouge" and "Chicago," they didn't so much further the narrative as confuse it.

An even bigger problem than the book, however, is that there's no emotional payoff.

If you're going to write a musical about a profoundly shallow caste, you'd better figure out how to engage the audience's emotions. I left the theater feeling nothing for Bateman and company. Rejecting the manipulative drama of Rodgers and Hammerstein is one thing; making us feel like we've just the first musical of the Trump Era, quite another.

"American Psycho" is playing an open-ended run at the Gerald Schoenfeld Theater, 236 West 45th Street. For tickets or information, call 212-239-6200 or visit the show's website.