| Ladies and gents,
The blizzard got the final curtain — but not the final word.
Yesterday, as snow swirled over Times Square in great theatrical gusts, the original London cast of Operation Mincemeat played their farewell at what was meant to be their penultimate performance. The scheduled evening performance was ultimately canceled for safety — sometimes even Broadway bows to Mother Nature — but these resourceful conspirators refused to let the storm steal their sendoff. Instead, they gathered at the Laurie Beechman Theatre and live-streamed songs for stranded fans, turning a weather emergency into one last wink at posterity. Among those who managed to secure access? Jesse Eisenberg, who reportedly called representatives barely an hour before curtain to ensure he and his entire family could attend. Resourceful recognizes resourceful.
Earlier in the afternoon, they had already shared a curtain call of uncommon grace — welcoming the incoming American company to the stage, embracing them, and symbolically passing the baton. The Yanks begin Tuesday. Thus ends one chapter of this most improbable transatlantic caper, and another begins.
And what a final weekend it was.
On Saturday, Mincemeat went clean — standing room only — across three simultaneous productions in London, New York, and Manchester. Three cities, spanning an ocean. One mischievous corpse. Not an empty seat to be found. If ever there were proof that a scrappy little British musical had become a bona fide global sensation, that was it.
I saw the original cast multiple times on Broadway — though still not as many as self-described “Mincefluencer” Taffy Brodesser-Akner, who breathlessly chronicled her obsessive fandom and repeat viewings in a much-discussed New York Times Magazine piece.
The original quintet — David Cumming, Claire-Marie Hall, Natasha Hodgson, Jak Malone, and Zoë Roberts — didn’t just perform; they conspired. (It bears noting that Cumming, Hodgson, and Roberts also co-wrote the show, alongside composer and co-author Felix Hagan.) On stage, they shape-shifted with such velocity and glee that one felt privileged merely to keep up. The plot — a deliciously absurd yet entirely true WWII deception is dispatched with breakneck wit. But what lingers is the ensemble’s once-in-a-generation chemistry.
And then there was “Dear Bill.”
Let the record show: most of the New York media corps and theater community were in rare, thunderous agreement — “Dear Bill” was the moment of last season. Malone, in a performance so tender it could bruise you, delivered it with aching restraint. I have seen hardened press agents openly weep. I have witnessed seasoned producers dab at their eyes and pretend it was allergies. It was not allergies.
The legion of fans — devoted, repeat-attending, lyric-quoting disciples — formed quickly and fervently. Stage doors resembled religious revivals. Playbills were treated as sacred texts. So much so, in fact, that at Sunday’s matinee, sticky fingered devotees attempted to spirit away souvenir programs from neighboring seats — the final batch bearing this particular cast’s names — as if they were relics rather than paper stock.
Between performances, our visiting heroes behaved like the most charming exchange students imaginable. They toured the United Nations with wide-eyed diplomacy. They braved Coney Island’s salt air and roller coasters. They posed for selfies with fans in Times Square. It was all rather touching — London’s scrappiest musical-theatre insurgents discovering the five boroughs like giddy schoolchildren.
Tony night? Revelry. After nominations and accolades, they reveled with the kind of glee usually reserved for championship athletes and ingenues at Sardi’s. And then — up to the Presidential Suite at The Carlyle, where John Gore’s hospitality flowed as freely as the champagne. They toasted. They laughed. They passed around Malone’s well-deserved trophy.
As the Americans step into their boots this week, one senses the show resonates more than ever in these trying times. A story about imagination outwitting tyranny, about collaboration triumphing over bureaucracy, about unlikely heroes rising to the occasion — darling, that never goes out of style.
The London originals leave not just applause in their wake, but a movement. They arrived as unknown imports. They depart as Broadway legends.
Tidbits from around town…
Overheard at Via Carota a visibly impassioned Upper West Sider explaining the Canadian curling cheating scandal to a deeply confused date, complete with hand gestures illustrating an “egregious double touch” and the phrase, “It’s about integrity on the ice.”
Spotted Zendaya exiting The Mercer with one impossibly structured black coat and the calm composure of someone fully aware that every stitch will be dissected online before dessert.
Caught Michael Bloomberg studying the Wall Street Journal with the same intensity other men reserve for vintage Bordeaux.
As always, a toast of something sparkling to you and yours!
Kisses, |
