Am I in the minority when I say I need Shakespeare’s Titus Andronicus to be bloody?

It puts me at odds, anyway, with Washington Ensemble Theatre, which has reimagined the Bard’s most gruesome drama as Titus, adding pop flair but subtracting all blood in two wry, dry hours with no intermission.

At least credit director Katjana Vadeboncoeur for creating a vivid world. General Titus (Nathan Sorseth) returns from victorious battle with Goth queen Tamora (Montana von Fliss) and clan as prisoners in tow. There’s spacey, sonorous music; solemn soldiers in white; a blindfolded captive; and a ritual processional lit with votive candles. It’s war seen as a kind of hyper-butch, fraternity hysteria (a good call, that). No surprise, in this heady atmosphere, that Titus slays a disobedient son without compunction.

Many more murders occur, with the results illustrated rather than executed. A red chain symbolizes the disemboweling of Tamora’s son. Other deaths result in red feathers, confetti, even a bouncing red ball. Interesting stagecraft. But you don’t feel anything other than regard for the ensemble’s considerable imagination.

In one of theater’s most heinous fates, Titus’s daughter Lavinia (Mikano Fukaya) is forced to watch the murder of her lover, Bassianus (David S. Hogan), then is raped, has her tongue cut out and both hands cut off. Here, she and her rapists—Tamora’s sneering sons Chiron (Anthony Darnell) and Demetrius (Alex Matthews)—enact a sultry assault choreographed to the strains of “All of Me” (“You took the part/that once was my heart/so why not take all of me?”). Lavinia then dons dish gloves dyed red.

Again, such horror is admirably clever but distinctly—and distressingly—unhorrific: Admiring a bloodless Titus is like praising a sexless Streetcar Named Desire; you’re appreciating something vital that’s been removed as opposed to noting something essential that’s been unearthed.

Nearly the entire impressive company stumbles trying to locate the middle ground between smarm and severity. How serious should one take oneself when one’s production features deep house music, the vocals of Billie Holiday and Peggy Lee, and a flashy sensibility just this side of camp? Von Fliss, a performer of real intellect, is asked to prance about like a Dynasty diva out for an Emmy. At least she looks great. Others look lost: Jonathan Hoonhout, as Tamora’s conniving lover Aaron, just flounders. Sorseth and, especially, Hogan register strongly but seem to be starring in an entirely different staging.

Shakespeare’s play should goose you with grisly thrills while shaming you for wanting them. You can only get so much kick or contemplation out of crafty metaphors. WET’s take is wily but enervating—it saps the play’s strength along with its plasma.