American Psycho the musical review, Almeida Theatre

Matt Smith is an actor so strange in every particular that he is both invisible and highly visible.  In Polly Stenham's, That Face, he appeared as a teenage blob in grubby underpants. By the end of the night his portrayal of a complex, abused, son had stunned us all. The same is true of his Patrick Bateman in the Almeida's sizzling musical reworking of Brett Easton Ellis's visceral novel, American Psycho. Bateman is a man who feels he is 'not there'.  He cannot empathise and he cannot love. On a stage bursting with testosterone, with sharp suits, designer labels and big hair, he moves around the edges in slo-mo. His only measure of self worth, is the ease with which he can book tables in top restaurants.

As he detaches from his peers, Bateman obsessively watches hard porn and slasher movies. Then he starts acting them out. Smith is so successfully 'not there' that he even sings in an instantly forgettable monotone. Our tickets were last minute returns - it's well worth calling the box office for returns if you've a free evening - and we were in the second row at The Almeida. His Desperate Dan jawline and the hooded slits of his eyes were inches from our faces, but there was nothing to latch on to: we were looking into a void.  When he cracked a smile during the curtain call, he looked like someone else altogether. It's a superb performance.

The music is by Duncan Sheik who wrote Spring Awakening. It's a less memorable score, but has the same uplift; There's nothing ironic about our love for Manolo Blahnik. The cast boasts polished musical performers including Holly Dale Spencer, Cassandra Compton, Lucie Jones, and Holly James. Susannah Fielding is a joy as Bateman's acquisitive fiancee Evelyn, and Ben Aldridge slyly shines as his nemesis Paul Owen. Lynne Page's choreography is so eighties, you're straight back there. There's a brilliant sequence in which the bankers jump on and off tables while comparing and competing over, business cards. Quite what Smith's Dr Who following will make of the sex, blood and gore that follows, is unknown.

In conclusion: For some reason, the liveliest productions about 1980s excesses are musicals from Serious Money to Enron and now American Psycho. The story's ending is a cop out, which is a shame, but the previous two hours in the hands of Rupert Goold, a director who could find gloss in a bucket of fish, have been so exhilarating, one overlooks it.

References
The Almeida, Tickets

Almeida Theatre, Almeida Street, London N1 1TA.   Run ends Feb 1.