It may be tough to believe that the gayest show on Broadway this summer is a laugh riot about former First Lady Mary Todd Lincoln. But Cole Escola’s Oh, Mary! has been the breathless exclamation on the lips of every theater queen, weirdo, and tastemaker ever since the show’s sold-out downtown run earlier this year. Now that the slapstick comedy is making the leap to Broadway — at the Lyceum Theater, where it opens July 11 — the writer and star is conflicted about all the attention.
“I don’t crave being folded into the mainstream,” says Escola, 37, perched on a plush stool in their powder-pink dressing room, which was decorated in part by their friend and former co-star Amy Sedaris. “But that's a pretty stupid thing to say and then be actively taking steps to be part of the mainstream — so, I don't know.”
A darling of the alternative comedy scene, Escola developed a cult following with their fiercely dedicated turns as desperate and deluded dames, both real and imagined, in a myriad of YouTube sketches with a self-consciously amateur vibe and titles like “Bernadette Peters Does Her Taxes.” Escola also brought a memorably twisted energy to their performances on At Home With Amy Sedaris and Search Party, and has more recently worked behind the camera as a writer and producer on The Other Two and Hacks.
But Oh, Mary! is Escola’s most personal — and perhaps most ridiculous — project to date. “We’re both alcoholic wannabe cabaret stars,” Escola says of their similarities to Mary Todd, whose rabid appetite for booze and fame fuels the ahistorical plot, following a madcap lead-up to the president’s assassination. “Underneath that, we’re both afraid of being too happy.”
Part of Escola’s ambivalence toward their recent success is a fear of enjoying it too much and then missing it when it goes. Still, there is an irrepressible grin behind their eyes as they talk about introducing Mary to a more conventional crowd. “I always write it for the same audience, which is me and my friends,” they tell me.
Ahead of the show’s Broadway premiere, Escola talked with Them about the torments of courting and resisting fame, the joy of discovering Judy Garland, and why the concept of queer visibility makes them queasy.
How do you feel about bringing a show that’s been a gay downtown hit to a more mainstream platform? Do you wonder how the reception might change?
I actually have nothing to do with it coming to Broadway, aside from being like, “Yeah!’ It’d be nice if the show closed after two performances.” That would be a great story, too.
It’s interesting because there has been such an influx of queer humor and aesthetics into the mainstream that it feels like we’ve reached a point where you can be unapologetically yourself and find an audience.
That reminds me of a bit in John Early’s special, where it’s like, “‘Be yourself!’ doesn’t actually mean ‘be yourself,’ it means being a commercial version.”
How do you feel about that? Do you feel like you have permission to be whoever you want to be as an artist?
I feel embarrassed when I see photos of myself in mainstream publications. It’s so like, “Go, queer! You can be queer!” Like, “Look, boy in dress!” And I’m like, “Ugh.” I wish it was just the work speaking for itself. But I say that, and then I do those things anyway, so I’m a liar. I’m just like every other show business person who’s like, “I just want to be left alone. I like staying at home. I’m really just a normal person.” Meanwhile I’m like, working with a stylist to attend the Met Gala.
What feels uncomfortable about that?
It just makes me think like, “Oh, God, I really think I’m somebody.” It’s embarrassing because there’s a kernel of truth in it. I do think I’m somebody and that I’m special. And then I see it reflected back at me and I’m like, “Oh, my God, you idiot. Like, get off the stage.”
That’s funny because the character of Mary Todd is so egotistical and would love having her picture taken. Are you different from her in that way?
She’s that part of me that I’m getting to exercise. And me, Cole — I’m protected because it’s her. The other characters who insult her are like the other parts of myself, the ones who say it’s laughable that I could consider myself romantically viable or a star, that it would be disgusting to kiss me.
I know you’re ambivalent about your own visibility, but I sometimes look at the huge swell of queerness in pop culture, and everything young people have at their fingertips, and feel a sense of sadness that I didn’t have that when we were kids—
Really? I feel the opposite.
How so?
Because I got to make my own. When I found things, it felt like being an archaeologist. Like discovering Marlene Dietrich through her song being used in a car commercial, and then downloading it on LimeWire. It was just so much more exciting how hard it was to get a hold of that stuff. I know I’m romanticizing.
You liked that process of discovery.
If I had a choice at the time, I would have been like, “Oh, no, I would rather be in 2024.” But looking back, I just remember going to Sam Goody and finding Judy Garland at Carnegie Hall and all those little things.
That’s part of what made you into someone who would write a very gay play about Mary Todd Lincoln.
Yes! I also think it’s interesting how many people come to the same references on their own. Before I found Charles Busch’s work, I was obsessed with all of the same references, and before him, Charles Ludlam was obsessed with all those references. It’s funny that something clicked in me when I saw Mommy Dearest for the first time on TV when I was 12. There’s something about Faye Dunaway that just ignites a gene.
If I said you might be considered a queer role model at this point, what would you say to that?
I’d say gross. But also, that’s sweet. When I think of role models, I think of people who were doing their own thing and it made me think, “Oh, I want to do my own thing too.” I never said, “I’m gonna be like that.” I was just like, “Oh, wow, they didn’t have a model to go off of, but they did it anyway.”
What’s next for Cole, and for Mary Todd?
I really want to do the show in London. And it would be nice to film it, even if it doesn’t get released, just so I can watch it when I’m old. And by old I mean in 10 years, when I’m washed up already. Then I would really like to just write for other people.
Are you uncomfortable being in the spotlight and playing the lead?
I feel like I’m getting more uncomfortable as I get older. I had all this hunger and energy in my 20s that got me to where I am now. And I’m a little less hungry for this than I was. But I say that and I’m sure once it goes away I’ll be like, “Let me back in. Please invite me to the party. Get me back on the stage. I’m writing a show that’s just me playing all the parts.”
It sounds like that tension between, “Look at me, don’t look at me.”
Exactly. And now I’m embarrassed because I’ve had enough interviews where I’ve said that I only want to write for other people. And then I’m like, “You fucking liar! Bullshit. Oh, yeah? You’re just gonna write?”
“No, I don’t want to be on the stage at all. No, I don’t want any attention. Don’t mind me. I hate being looked at.”
“Yeah, right.”
We’ll see. I do think that whatever I write next, even if I am in it, I’m going make sure that I get plenty of time offstage or that the part does not require me jumping all over the stage in a heavy hoop skirt bruising my knees and elbows. I’m like, “Who wrote this?” This is a terrible part for someone.
How do you feel about greeting fans at the stage door?
I have to go see the people. It’s my face on the poster! The fans make the show; I really owe it to them. I do look forward to those things. That’s why I do it, to connect with people. It might be different if I were just acting, but I also wrote it. So it means a lot to me to connect with people and have them tell me why they liked it. That feels amazing.
And that’s not embarrassing to admit?
No, I’ve done the ego calculation and I think that it’ll come off as endearing.
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