Horror falls flat on Broadway

The play “Grey House,” which opened this week on the Lyceum Theatre, attempts to be a latest horror movie on an old Broadway.

Such a merger sounds smart in theory, with the genre doing reliably big business at cinemas and boasting hoards of ready-made fans. Why not produce “M3GAN Live,” or “The Nun” in two acts?

Well, for one easy reason: since the sort of paralyzing fear and gruesome death that fuels horror movies is nearly unimaginable to satisfyingly replicate on the theater. 

Many scenes in Levi Holloway’s play — which isn’t based on anyone film — are creepy or camp, but hardly terrifying. 

At a haunted house, at the very least, performers get in your face and sometimes freakily touch you.

Nonetheless, director Joe Mantello’s production of “Grey House” only offers just a few audio-based jump-scares and a vaguely spooky atmosphere. The strain is swallowed whole even by a house as intimate because the Lyceum, and shudders from the audience are rare.

Once we’ve grow to be accustomed to the occasional burst of unexpected noise, the play settles for being merely unsettling.

“Grey House” is watered-down Blumhouse (“Get Out”) with shades of “The Shining.” Max (understudy Claire Karpen was on, however the role is often played by Tatiana Maslany) and Henry (Paul Sparks), a married couple, get right into a automobile accident within the mountains during a blizzard, and seek refuge in a cabin occupied by five creepy kids. 

These Children of the Cold — led by Marlow (a mannered Sophia Anne Caruso) — speak in riddles, sign language and overwrought faux-etry, and sing slick nursery rhyme songs which have the polish of “Matilda the Musical.”

With annoying names, comparable to Squirrel (Colby Kipnes), A1656 (Alyssa Emily Marvin), Bernie (Millicent Simmonds) and The Boy (Eamon Patrick O’Connell), they’re alleged to be mysteriously precocious, but as written they’re pure fakery.

One brash adult, Raleigh (Laurie Metcalf), cares for the children, and we assume she have to be their mother. The venerable stage and TV star is entertaining as ever, but in fact a plaid-clad backwoods weirdo is hardly a stretch for her.

Trapped by the storm, Max and Henry make themselves at home and are oddly unfazed by the numerous disturbing sights they witness. The home has a supernatural mind of its own, and I suppose its magical pull is why they never attempt to run away. I’d turn cast-iron skillets into snowshoes before spending the night with these little monsters.

Unfortunately, the play plateaus early and has no gripping construct, with no riveting performances to talk of.

Some images, comparable to illuminated jars crammed with liquid and a net of blood-red sinew, are striking, though. A doll sits on the foot of the stage and stares at us the whole show, giving a terrific inanimate turn. Indeed, what comes off best is Scott Pask’s woodsy set of hidden secrets.

The self-serious script by Holloway, however, is a multitude of forced moods, half-baked ideas and horror tropes. The play tries to guard itself from accusations of cliché by having Henry acknowledge from the offset that “I’ve seen this movie before,” “Scream”-style.

But the issue isn’t that we’re reminded of Stephen King or Jordan Peele — it’s that the execution here is way worse, the second half is a slog and no one knows what the hell is happening.

Welcome to the House of 1,000 Snoozes.