AMERICAN PSYCHO REVIEW: A CULT MUSICAL FINDS ITS MOMENT IN A DARKER AGE
AMERICAN PSYCHO REVIEW: A CULT MUSICAL FINDS ITS MOMENT IN A DARKER AGE
rupert goold ends his historic tenure at london's almeida theatre by returning to where he started
rupert goold ends his historic tenure at london's almeida theatre by returning to where he started
★★★★☆
★★★★☆
There are few things more dangerous—or more bracing—than walking into a piece of theatre almost completely blind. Rupert Goold’s revived American Psycho, now returning as he closes his 13-year tenure as Artistic Director of the Almeida Theatre, rewards that leap of faith with something jagged, unsettling, and eerily attuned to the present moment. Thirteen years ago, this musical adaptation of Bret Easton Ellis’s novel (and the cult film that followed) was widely dismissed as ahead of its time. Watching it now, it feels less prophetic than diagnostic.
There are few things more dangerous—or more bracing—than walking into a piece of theatre almost completely blind. Rupert Goold’s revived American Psycho, now returning as he closes his 13-year tenure as Artistic Director of the Almeida Theatre, rewards that leap of faith with something jagged, unsettling, and eerily attuned to the present moment. Thirteen years ago, this musical adaptation of Bret Easton Ellis’s novel (and the cult film that followed) was widely dismissed as ahead of its time. Watching it now, it feels less prophetic than diagnostic.
I, too, came in as something of a blank slate. I had never read the novel or seen the film, armed only with a cursory understanding of Patrick Bateman: Wall Street golden boy, serial killer, cultural Rorschach test. That near-ignorance turned out to be a gift. What unfolded onstage was one of the most unexpected musical theatre experiences I’ve had in years—a slick, blood-soaked fever dream that weaponizes style, repetition, and satire to hold a cracked mirror up to a culture rotting from the inside out.
I, too, came in as something of a blank slate. I had never read the novel or seen the film, armed only with a cursory understanding of Patrick Bateman: Wall Street golden boy, serial killer, cultural Rorschach test. That near-ignorance turned out to be a gift. What unfolded onstage was one of the most unexpected musical theatre experiences I’ve had in years—a slick, blood-soaked fever dream that weaponizes style, repetition, and satire to hold a cracked mirror up to a culture rotting from the inside out.
Goold, who first staged American Psycho at the Almeida in 2013 before shepherding it to Broadway in 2016, now revisits the material with sharper teeth and clearer intent. This revival feels less interested in shocking for shock’s sake than in underlining just how normalized the grotesque has become. The creative team’s decision to incorporate references to Trump and Epstein—handled with a light but unmistakable touch—anchors the piece firmly in our current moral freefall. What once read as exaggerated satire now lands as bleakly familiar.
Goold, who first staged American Psycho at the Almeida in 2013 before shepherding it to Broadway in 2016, now revisits the material with sharper teeth and clearer intent. This revival feels less interested in shocking for shock’s sake than in underlining just how normalized the grotesque has become. The creative team’s decision to incorporate references to Trump and Epstein—handled with a light but unmistakable touch—anchors the piece firmly in our current moral freefall. What once read as exaggerated satire now lands as bleakly familiar.
Duncan Sheik’s score remains the production’s most contested element, though its effectiveness lies less in traditional musical-theatre craftsmanship and more in its fusion with the show’s aggressively curated 1980s soundscape. It is not the strongest score ever written, but its sleek electro-pop textures feel purpose-built for the cult, consumerist aesthetic of Bateman’s world. Pulsing synths, artificial emotional restraint, and repetitive hooks mirror the era’s obsession with surface over substance—and Bateman’s own hollow interiority. That atmosphere is further enriched by the inspired use of reimagined 80s pop anthems. Midway through the first act, Phil Collins’ “In the Air Tonight” appears as a ghostly, ensemble-driven ballad, drained of its stadium bombast and rendered eerily intimate. Earlier, Jean’s tender rendition of Tears for Fears’ “Everybody Wants to Rule the World” offers a fleeting glimpse of sincerity in a landscape otherwise defined by irony and power. The act one finale—Huey Lewis and the News’ “Hip to Be Square,” played back during Patrick’s axe murder of Paul Owen—lands as a chilling thesis statement, its cheery corporate pop grotesquely aligned with unrestrained violence. Later, the penultimate ensemble rendition of The Human League’s “Don’t You Want Me” leans fully into camp, weaponizing nostalgia as both critique and spectacle. These familiar hits, woven alongside Sheik’s original material, do much of the heavy lifting in establishing tone, helping the score—uneven though it may be—cohere into a soundscape that feels inseparable from the show’s savage, satirical bite.
Duncan Sheik’s score remains the production’s most contested element, though its effectiveness lies less in traditional musical-theatre craftsmanship and more in its fusion with the show’s aggressively curated 1980s soundscape. It is not the strongest score ever written, but its sleek electro-pop textures feel purpose-built for the cult, consumerist aesthetic of Bateman’s world. Pulsing synths, artificial emotional restraint, and repetitive hooks mirror the era’s obsession with surface over substance—and Bateman’s own hollow interiority. That atmosphere is further enriched by the inspired use of reimagined 80s pop anthems. Midway through the first act, Phil Collins’ “In the Air Tonight” appears as a ghostly, ensemble-driven ballad, drained of its stadium bombast and rendered eerily intimate. Earlier, Jean’s tender rendition of Tears for Fears’ “Everybody Wants to Rule the World” offers a fleeting glimpse of sincerity in a landscape otherwise defined by irony and power. The act one finale—Huey Lewis and the News’ “Hip to Be Square,” played back during Patrick’s axe murder of Paul Owen—lands as a chilling thesis statement, its cheery corporate pop grotesquely aligned with unrestrained violence. Later, the penultimate ensemble rendition of The Human League’s “Don’t You Want Me” leans fully into camp, weaponizing nostalgia as both critique and spectacle. These familiar hits, woven alongside Sheik’s original material, do much of the heavy lifting in establishing tone, helping the score—uneven though it may be—cohere into a soundscape that feels inseparable from the show’s savage, satirical bite.
At the center of it all is Arty Froushan, whose Patrick Bateman is disturbingly magnetic. Froushan plays him not as a monster hiding in plain sight, but as a man so perfectly engineered by capitalism, masculinity, and entitlement that monstrosity feels like a logical next step. He is handsome, charming, physically imposing—and, against one’s better judgment, deeply attractive. That queasy pull is the point. Froushan understands that Bateman’s power lies not just in what he may or may not do, but in how easily he seduces us into watching. The supporting cast functions almost like an extension of Bateman’s fractured psyche, blurring the line between reality and fantasy, and they are uniformly excellent. Among them, Oli Higginson delivers a standout performance as Timothy Price, capturing the brittle bravado and hollow cruelty of Bateman’s social circle with unnerving precision. Higginson is also responsible for one of the production’s most hauntingly funny moments: a second-act elevator scene in which he appears opposite Bateman not as Timothy, but as Donald Trump. The impression—razor-sharp, grotesque, and just recognizable enough—lands like a punchline from hell. It is impossible not to laugh, even as the satire cuts uncomfortably close to home. Moments like this crystallize the show’s central question: are we watching reality fracture, or simply seeing it more clearly than before?
At the center of it all is Arty Froushan, whose Patrick Bateman is disturbingly magnetic. Froushan plays him not as a monster hiding in plain sight, but as a man so perfectly engineered by capitalism, masculinity, and entitlement that monstrosity feels like a logical next step. He is handsome, charming, physically imposing—and, against one’s better judgment, deeply attractive. That queasy pull is the point. Froushan understands that Bateman’s power lies not just in what he may or may not do, but in how easily he seduces us into watching. The supporting cast functions almost like an extension of Bateman’s fractured psyche, blurring the line between reality and fantasy, and they are uniformly excellent. Among them, Oli Higginson delivers a standout performance as Timothy Price, capturing the brittle bravado and hollow cruelty of Bateman’s social circle with unnerving precision. Higginson is also responsible for one of the production’s most hauntingly funny moments: a second-act elevator scene in which he appears opposite Bateman not as Timothy, but as Donald Trump. The impression—razor-sharp, grotesque, and just recognizable enough—lands like a punchline from hell. It is impossible not to laugh, even as the satire cuts uncomfortably close to home. Moments like this crystallize the show’s central question: are we watching reality fracture, or simply seeing it more clearly than before?
The supporting cast functions almost like an extension of Bateman’s fractured psyche, blurring the line between reality and fantasy. Colleagues, lovers, and victims drift in and out of focus, reinforcing the central ambiguity that has long defined American Psycho: did these murders actually happen, or are they the violent wish-fulfillment of a man hollowed out by status anxiety and consumer excess? Goold wisely refuses to answer that question. Instead, he lets the audience sit with the discomfort, forcing each viewer to decide what they believe—and what that belief says about them.
The supporting cast functions almost like an extension of Bateman’s fractured psyche, blurring the line between reality and fantasy. Colleagues, lovers, and victims drift in and out of focus, reinforcing the central ambiguity that has long defined American Psycho: did these murders actually happen, or are they the violent wish-fulfillment of a man hollowed out by status anxiety and consumer excess? Goold wisely refuses to answer that question. Instead, he lets the audience sit with the discomfort, forcing each viewer to decide what they believe—and what that belief says about them.
This American Psycho is not perfect. Its score lacks the consistent musical daring of its conceptual ambition, and its relentless tone may exhaust some viewers. But as a piece of theatre for right now—angry, ironic, and unflinchingly cynical—it lands with unnerving precision. Goold could not have chosen a more fitting farewell to the Almeida: a revival that proves he was right the first time, and that the world has, tragically, caught up.
This American Psycho is not perfect. Its score lacks the consistent musical daring of its conceptual ambition, and its relentless tone may exhaust some viewers. But as a piece of theatre for right now—angry, ironic, and unflinchingly cynical—it lands with unnerving precision. Goold could not have chosen a more fitting farewell to the Almeida: a revival that proves he was right the first time, and that the world has, tragically, caught up.
American Psycho - Almeida Theatre
Attended on 2 February 2026