From “Little Shop of Horrors” to “Carrie” and “Re-Animator,” horror musicals aren’t exactly new. But it’s safe to say none tops “The House of Von Macramé” in the hemoglobin department.
This giddy tribute to splatter films may have a tiny budget, but it doesn’t skimp on the splattering. By the curtain call, the actors were desperately trying not to slip on the gore-slick floor. (The effects are by Waldo Warshaw, the bloody genius behind “The Lieutenant of Inishmore.”)
The cleaning crew deserves overtime, especially since the show, which just opened at the 60-seat Bushwick Starr, is set in the world of fashion and features about 150 demented outfits. Many of them end up with crimson stains and wrecked by a knife — the weapon of choice for the Lipstick Killer, a mysterious masked figure who offs models and fashionistas.
Luckily, the new face in town, Britt Greenpoint (Rochelle Smith), and her buddy Rosemary Crawley (Megan Hill), a writer at “Hussy” magazine, are on the case. They quickly figure out there’s a link between the murders and Edsel Von Macramé (Paul Pecorino, “Devil Boys From Beyond”), a legendary designer responsible for such collections as Pilgrim Realness and Human Garbage — inventively represented by Tristan Raines’ costumes, which include “vagina jeggings” and a dress festooned with what looks like powdered doughnuts bleeding jelly.
Book writer Joshua Conkel and composer/lyricist Matt Marks keep their tongues firmly in cheek, and the first act rolls out at breakneck speed.
Conkel, who gave us the excellent “MilkMilkLemonade” a few years ago, is particularly good at bitchy throwaway lines and dingbat details: A hip restaurant is called Guano; vapid models go by Indigo (James Wells) and Jam Jam (Vanessa Pereda).
It’s nearly enough to obscure glaring inconsistencies, such as when exactly it’s all happening.
Marks’ score — performed live to recorded backing tracks — is firmly anchored in 1980s synth-pop. Similarly, Britt and Rosemary carry brick-like cellphones, and the journo uses microfiches at the library.
But then Conkel drops topical expressions like “epic fail” and references to reality TV. He’s being anachronistic on purpose, but the confusion is needlessly distracting.
The overlong second act also loses steam, with a lot of unnecessary characters singing unnecessary songs. Why waste time on them when you’ve got Pecorino’s Von Macramé, a model of eyebrow-arching camp? When this maniacal live-wire proclaims his love for shiny fabrics by crowing, “Hail Satin!” you’re ready to sign up for his cult.