ajhlovestheatre

OH, MARY!

by Cole Escola 

directed by Sam Pinkleton

Trafalgar Theatre, London  – until 25 April 2026

running time: 80 minutes no interval 

https://ohmaryplay.co.uk/?gad_source=1&gad_campaignid=22983789061&gbraid=0AAAABBK72OfzT3Uw1NDWmwxJGvPKpzmIH

When a multidisciplinary artist writes a piece of work for themselves to perform, there is often a sense that watching anybody else play it is somehow settling for second best. That appears not to be the case with Cole Escola’s Oh, Mary! though. The cultish New York smash about Abraham Lincoln’s troubled wife has seen a succession of big names succeed Escola as the titular Mary in the perpetually sold out Broadway production, including Jinkx Monsoon and Titus Burgess. The role’s present occupant over there, Jane Krakowski, delivers a weirdly endearing First Lady not that far removed from her Jenna Mulroney role in TV’s 30 Rock. 

London’s Mary Todd Lincoln is Mason Alexander Park, one of the current Cabaret’s most acclaimed Emcees and whose outlandish Ariel stole the Jamie Lloyd Tempest right out from under Sigourney Weaver’s nose. Park is firing on all cylinders here, and is the principal, but not the only, reason why Sam Pinkleton’s anarchic, confident production is an unmitigated West End triumph, and every bit the equal of the New York version.

Oh, Mary! remains utterly, joyfully ridiculous as it gleefully takes a queer hatchet to conventional straight sensibilities and themes, and casually rewrites American history. The Civil War is frequently referenced but pales into insignificance compared to the Uncivil War being waged between the Lincolns. Giles Terera invests upright, repressed gay Abraham with a furtive intensity and sad-eyed gravitas, forever leering at the male domestic staff when he thinks nobody’s looking and desperate to keep his wife in check. Mary is an easily triggered, vicious alcoholic with a victim complex and  a longing to return to the cabaret stage which her marriage forced her to abandon, that’s outdone only by her loathing for her husband and determination to get herself around the nearest bottle. This Mary is more than quite contrary, she’s absolutely unhinged but, as embodied by a mercurial, riveting Park, a multi-layered figure, as sympathetic as she’s screamingly funny. 

Clad in the funereal hoop dress and jet black ringleted wig (created by Holly Pierson and Leah J Loukas respectively) that have already become icons in queer theatre, Park’s Mrs Lincoln has a wildfire energy supercharged by malice and fury. There’s also a pleading wistfulness and palpable desolation that throws the comic brilliance into stunning relief: when she says she wishes she was dead we actually believe her, and her speech about her impossibly handsome acting coach (Dino Fetscher, irresistible) being a force of unattainable positivity is genuinely moving. Escola crafted Mary in their own image and as an extension of Cole’s persona, and delivered an unforgettable turn. Park is perhaps more nuanced; for all the absurdity and scenery-chewing wildness, this is an acting performance with truth and some danger at its core and elevates what can sometimes come across as a superior Saturday Night Live sketch on steroids into a full-blooded play. Two parts depressed princess to one part thug, they are utterly sensational: Park is incontrovertibly confirmed as an authentic theatre star, and a very fine actor. 

That Terera’s grandstanding, lecherous Lincoln and Fetscher as the wired hottie who ends up playing a bigger part in the unfolding history than one might imagine, more than hold their own against such a whirlwind is remarkable. I also loved Kate O’Donnell’s as a perky chaperone with an ice cream based shame that’s never to be spoken of (which means basically that Mary can barely shut up about it) and, later, a whiskery benign barkeep. Oliver Stockley is the fifth member of this merry team as the assistant that President Lincoln can’t seem to get enough of.

Pinkleton’s staging never misses a comic beat and, if its brief running time of eighty minutes leaves you wanting more, you’re unlikely to feel shortchanged, when you account for your sides and face aching from laughing. All in all, it’s a potty-mouthed, acid-and-honey mash-up of vaudeville, high camp, and twisted history lesson. The glitzy final section, where the set by dots and Cha See’s lighting design undergo a total transformation to match Mary’s mood, needs to be seen to be believed and if you’re not in love with Mason Alexander Park by that point then you probably need a hospital bed and an oxygen mask. An absolute blast.