In a PERFECT marketing move, like the series, Only Murders in the Building published – in full – the original review, which was never published because the main actor was murdered. The text, which we know provoked the anger of “someone” to the point of trying to kill actor Ben Glenroy (Paul Rudd) TWICE, succeeding on the second attempt. Shall we see the text?

THUNDER CRASHES, the lighthouse lantern spins, and a body lies crumpled on the rocks.

A body, dear reader, that I sincerely wished was my own.

If it had been, then I would have been spared from the cruelty of sitting through Oliver Putnam’s three-hour desperate cry for help. Bland. Bleak. Impossibly, indescribably boring; Death Rattle is far too perfect a name for a show that is essentially one long, shaky, exceptionally painful, dying breath.

The process of narrowing down a suspect behind the heinous crime that is this production, or even making a list of offenses is utterly overwhelming. The show is criminally miscast (we will get to that), heinously designed, and lit like the men’s sauna in a West Village gym in 1968 (very, very poorly!). But it is the direction that pains me most. It is the direction that makes me wish I could swap bodies with a Bush-era inmate in Guantanamo Bay if it means escaping this theater. It’s the direction that makes me convinced that the very foundations of modern American theatre are rotted to the core.

Putnam is admittedly more well-known for captivating his ensembles (by way of paralysis) than his audiences. But anyone with more culture than vanilla yogurt has probably encountered the play in some form—if not by starring in it at the local elementary school, then in the form of a spoof on television, in film, or by Cate Blanchett opening the Tonys in 2012. Therefore, I assumed—incorrectly—that anyone adapting the show for modern audiences might have something to say. Something unique.

Putnam is known best for his vivid use of color, his love of large ensembles, and his work bringing highly choreographed (and oft under-rehearsed) musicals to the American stage. And yet Death Rattle feels drained of all vitality. One watch is enough to sap any audience member of the desire to return to the theatre—for life.

The show was clearly meant to be a star vehicle for Ben Glenroy, who appears to have really tried his best. Honestly. And that’s very sweet, but his “best” unfortunately included several missed lines, three unscripted vulgarities, and two involuntary winks at women in the audience. He’s as wooden as the lighthouse he’s standing on, and unlike most silver screen stars who struggle to scale up for the big stage, Glenroy projected so much that I was showered in spittle (row 10) by the time it was intermission.

Charles-Hayden Savage was more Brazzos than Constable, which would have been fine if he’d had the decency to arrest himself for his godawful performance, including but not limited to, his pants fly being down the entire second act. As far as the rest of the cast goes, Broadway newcomer Loretta Durkin was an underutilized breath of fresh air, but the ensemble seemed just as confused to be there as I was.

Was I missing something? Was the undeniable suffering I was experiencing as a viewer meant to evoke the work of say, Norwegian photographer Torbjørn Rødland whose disturbing photographs and themes of sadomasochism make commentary on the eroticism of the pain we inflict upon ourselves? Was the nightmarish lighting some weak visual reference to Caravaggio’s tenebrism, an allusion meant to help me find common ground between his grim, somber, works and my own depressing fate of sitting in this theatre? After much more thought than I care to have given, I can say confidently: no. No art was made here. No risks were taken. No work was done.

Putnam’s show didn’t sing. But whose fault was this really?

Like a ship ignoring the lighthouse’s bright and steady beams as it crashes into the craggy shore, I should have seen this one coming miles away. My biggest regret was ever getting my hopes up.

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