Theatre in Review: Operation Mincemeat (Golden Theatre)

	Photo: Julieta Cervantes

Late in the first act, Operation Mincemeat abandons its frantically cartooned, herky-jerky ways and quietly takes one's breath away. The new musical is about a famous British counterespionage maneuver in World War II, and, for reasons we'll get to in a moment, the task facing the intelligence officers ensconced in war rooms underneath London is to create a fake identity for a dead soldier. To this end, all sorts of official papers have been generated, and a wallet is stuffed with receipts from a grand night out, including dinner and the theatre. The finishing touch is to be a love letter from his girl back home, a task that leaves everyone stuck and at a loss for the right words.

Then Hester, a secretary who normally keeps her mouth shut, speaks up, offering to compose the missive. In the number "Dear Bill," she begins by perfectly imitating the tone of a young woman assuring her lover that all is well on the home front, especially the roses they so enjoyed cultivating together. Halfway through, however, her tone alters, her cheerful mask slips, and her loneliness and anger pour out. "And why did we meet in the middle of a war?/What a silly thing for anyone to do?" she sings, and by now it is clear that Hester, in her mid-forties, is reliving her experience in the previous world war. It's a delicate, yet powerful, piece of writing, revealing a character as only the best musicals can do. The heartfelt, restrained delivery of Jak Malone adds to the impact. The actor justifiably earns the evening's biggest hand.

There's another, similar moment late in Act II: Hester and Jean, another secretary, sing "Useful," in which they quietly dream of earning some small recognition for their contribution to the war effort. It's that old-fashioned thing, a charm song, designed only to make us like the characters a little better, and does it ever seal that deal. Lyrics like "Yes, it's all true, though you'd never believe it/They did what they could do, and though you'd never see it" trenchantly note that wars are won in many ways, and it's worth celebrating the many combatants who never see a field of battle. That they are women who, possibly for the first time, are seeing a new worth in themselves, makes the number infinitely more touching. Malone is joined by Claire-Marie Hall, who understands the virtue of underplaying.

Otherwise, to enjoy Operation Mincemeat, you must have an extraordinarily high tolerance for British humor at its silliest. The show celebrates a real-life disinformation plot that involved dumping on a Spanish beach the apparently drowned corpse of a British airman, carrying a package of false plans for an invasion of Sardinia, designed to lure away tens of thousands of German soldiers from Sicily, where British forces intended to establish a beachhead for its incursion into Southern Europe. There's no reason that this daring, all-important deception might not benefit from comic treatment, but everyone here is bent on transforming this wartime tale into a twitchy, music-hall-meets-Monty-Python entertainment. It is filled with funny people striking funny poses and making funny gestures -- and, when the action moves to Spain, they adopt funny accents and wear funny mustaches. Funnily enough, I didn't find this funny at all.

The show begins on a charming-enough note with the number "Born to Lead," which lionizes the members of the spy service while spoofing the self-adoration of the upper classes: "You're sure to save the nation"/Nanny told me in my cot/"For your father gave you courage"/Also ponies and that yacht/My centuries of breeding/I know they'll fail me not/For fortune favors bravery/And a fortune's what I've got." If the rest of the show were on the level, there would be nothing to complain about.

Alas, with these private school graduates playing their war games, the level of humor is stuck in the sixth form. For example, when Charles Cholmondeley, a tic-laden nerd obsessed with the natural world, is asked if the plan (which he authored) is shoddily researched, he enthusiastically asks, "Does a newt have penis?" (In case you're wondering -- I was -- the answer is no.) Later, when queried if he is excited about it being put into motion, he exclaims, "Does a newt have an anus?" (Yep, it does.) When asked, in a moment of stress, if he is all right, he wonders, "Does a newt fear death?" (Who can say?)

It's not just the newts. Looking for a convincing corpse, Montagu, the operation's chief officer, unable to remember the correct term, asks, "Charles, what do you call someone who's obsessed with dead people?" "Aunt Gladys? Charles replies. When the characters repair to a pub, you can bet it will be called "The Milky Pig." When someone is discovered trying to write a screenplay about his wartime experiences, of course, a colleague snaps, "At least it's not a bloody musical!" Among all this japering, Bevan, the senior officer, reminding one and all that the fates of thousands are at stake, shouts, "These men's lives are not a joke!" Well, you can't prove it by this crowd.

The book, by David Cumming, Felix Hagan, Natasha Hodgson, and Zoe Roberts (all of whom collaborated on the music and lyrics), isn't strong on storytelling. The pathologist Bernard Spilsbury, who advised on the right choice of a dead body, is rendered as a bizarre character, dressed like Mandrake the Magician, singing "I've got every kind that you could need/Old ladies to adolescents, in all stages of putrescence/ So come inside and see what you can see." When he is suddenly dismissed as a nut in Act II, it's almost impossible to understand why. (The show is fairly hopeless about the moral ramifications of stealing a random cadaver and repurposing it without informing the deceased's loved ones.) Then again, much of the second act is taken up with a spurious mole hunt, involving Montagu and his brother, Ivor, a Communist filmmaker. It all comes to nothing, leaving one with the strong impression that, with the padding removed, Operation Mincemeat might have worked as a one-act musical. The score consists almost entirely of relentlessly bright and cheery patter numbers, including a boy-band sendup of the Nazis, which, opening the second act, marks the probable low point.

The cast, which includes Cumming, Hodgson, and Roberts, can be charming when not striking poses more suitable for animated film. (Director Robert Hastie and choreographer Jenny Arnold have done nothing to allay the generally frenetic atmosphere.) This is a true your-mileage-may-vary situation, calling to mind the late drama critic Clive Barnes' formulation: "You'll like it if this is the sort of thing you like." At the performance I attended, more than a few in the audience were ready to surrender themselves to the giggly mood. But you'd better be clear about what you're getting into.

Ben Stones' set design convincingly evokes the squalor of the real underground offices; the upstage wall is lined in LED tape, which takes video cues to create, among other things, an American flag and a swastika. He also provides a mock Hollywood soundstage look for the last number, "A Glitzy Finale." His costumes are also generally solid. Mark Henderson's lighting is institutional when it needs to be and colorful when something more musical comedy is called for. Mike Walker's sound design keeps the voices on top of the music; the occasional moments of intelligibility are due to poor diction or lyrics delivered too rapidly.

I must add that Operation Mincemeat has been a huge hit in London -- although I suspect the ad copy that calls it "the best-reviewed musical in West End history" may be a wee bit over the top -- and it seems to be winning over New York audiences, too. But, to my mind, if the original Operation Mincemeat were as successful as the musical portraying it, we might all be living under the Nazi boot today. Still, days later, I find myself thinking about Hester and her letter to the soldier who never was. Sometimes you find a bit of truth in the strangest places. --David Barbour