Theater review
OPERATION MINCEMEAT
Two hours and 30 minutes, with one intermission. At the Golden Theatre, 252 West 45th Street.
Like any Broadway show, the musical “Operation Mincemeat” sells merchandise and drinks at intermission.
Might I also suggest Adderall?
The madcap World War II comedy from London, which opened Thursday night at the Golden Theatre, is an often tiring wallop of frenetic hyperactivity. There’s ample cleverness and some witty lines, but the Red Bull tweeness gets grating.
Eighty-two roles are played by a caffeinated cast of five young Brits: David Cumming, Natasha Hodgson, Jak Malone, Claire-Marie Hall and Zoë Roberts.
They shout, jump, rave, wink, mug, change outfits countless times and race through wordy lyrics like singing auctioneers. Men play women, women play men. The only thing they don’t do is breathe.
Joined by Felix Hagan, stars Hodgson, Cumming and Roberts also co-wrote the overly silly show that blends “Hamilton”-like rap, “Six”-style dance pop and “Billy Elliot”-evoking anthems with broad physical comedy and throws it all onto a hamster wheel.
I found the story absorbing; the yuks, abusive.
The little-known, weird-but-true tale, which was recently made into a serious film of the same name starring Colin Firth, is itself appealingly warped.
Set in 1943, it’s about a real intelligence operation during the Second World War in which the British tricked the Nazis into abandoning Sicily by planting false plans on a corpse disguised as an officer.
Such a premise wouldn’t immediately scream “musical!”, but here’s a techno dance number called “Das Übermensch” performed by dancing Nazis. And this chapter of history is anything but humorous, yet now it’s best-known for being a comedy that ends with a mega-mix and confetti cannon.
Perhaps that’s why “Mincemeat” has developed such a rabid fandom in the UK: It’s a scrappy work put on by a scrappy company with humble origins. Everybody loves an underdog. On Broadway, it’s just one more strange little show among many this season.
I’ll spare you the other 77 characters. Our core quintet is MI5 officers who ply their trade within the British government safely behind desks. They attended upper-crust universities and are a mix of blowhards and nerds.
“Some were born to follow, but we were born to lead,” sings Ewen Montagu (Hodgson), a self-obsessed jerk who sucks up all the oxygen in the room. Meanwhile, Mincemeat architect Charles Cholmondeley (Cumming) fixates on insects and reptiles. “I wish I was a maggot,” he sings.
Essentially, Michael Scott and Dwight from “The Office” are tasked with defeating the Germans.
Some actual emotion is introduced by Malone’s Hester, a secretary whose heart leaps out to the random dead body the team has procured only to discard as a prop. A “Trojan corpse,” the chillier officers call it. See? Some witty lines.
Malone, the finest actor and singer in “Mincemeat,” performs a moving and refreshingly serene, if slightly overlong, number called “Dear Bill” in which a teary Hester pens a letter pretending to be the cadaver’s worried fiance back at home.
Another sentimental group song, “Sail on, Boys,” is musically stirring, if narratively empty.
The score has a few catchy melodies that are ear-worms because of the show’s many reprises — a British tradition as cherished as afternoon tea or cycling through Prime Ministers. The smart lyrics, sometimes jumbled in the theater, are easier to discern on the album.
Director Robert Hastie, along with the cast, are most impressive when ably differentiating the litany of parts at lightning speed. Despite confusing source material, there is never any confusion in the musical.
However, I wish the production was more fulsome. The Golden has 400 more seats than its West End home, the Fortune. Having seen the show in both cities, it’s airer here. Some scenes, especially dialogue-dependent ones, get totally lost stateside. When all the lights are up on two people chatting off to the side, the vibe is lunch break.
Before moving to New York, the production conducted an online poll: “Is ‘Operation Mincemeat’ too British for Broadway?”
It’s not. But, for some, it will be too much.
