Alan Cumming is bringing an evening of songs and stories, 'Och & Oy! A Considered Cabaret,' to Toronto on Mar. 4.Illustration by Ashley Floréal
Alan Cumming calls himself “a messy performer,” but what I see is his mutability. He’s starred in films with Spice Girls, Spy Kids, Flintstones and James Bond. On stage he’s played Hamlet, Macbeth, Macheath and Robert Burns (in a danced solo performance). Most famously, he was a sexy, slinky master of ceremonies in Cabaret, directed by Sam Mendes in both London and New York. On television, he’s best known as Eli Gold, a blunt political operative on The Good Wife and The Good Fight. Recently he’s been giddily hamming it up in the musical parody Schmigadoon! on AppleTV+. (The sequel, Schmicago, is coming soon.)
Then there’s everything else Cumming does and is: novelist, memoirist, talk show host, nightclub owner, perfumer, ex-husband (he was married for eight years to the actress Hilary Lyon), husband (to the illustrator Grant Shaffer), LGBTQ+ activist, Scottish independence supporter, vegan, dual citizen (U.K./U.S.). He and his older brother, Tom, were raised near Carnoustie on the east coast of Scotland, where their mother was a secretary and their father was head forester of Panmure Estate. Now Cumming and Ari Shapiro, the National Public Radio host, are touring an evening of songs and stories, Och & Oy! A Considered Cabaret. It touches down in Toronto on March 4.
In a recent video interview from his New York City home, Cumming, 58, sat in a room full of books and charmed me for half an hour, with his rich Scottish accent, quicksilver wit, impish sense of irony and spot-on Liza Minnelli impersonation. Here are highlights from our conversation.
In 2009, Queen Elizabeth appointed you Officer of the Order of the British Empire (OBE), for your service to the arts and your LGBTQ+ activism. On Jan. 27 – your 58th birthday – you announced on Instagram that you’d given it back. Your post was nuanced: Initially, you appreciated the honour because it called necessary attention to LGBTQ+ rights. But things have evolved and you no longer want to be associated with “the toxicity of empire.” Did you know you’d break the internet?
No! I gave the thing back months ago, but hadn’t made a statement about it. I wanted to share the complex reasons why I did it. I wanted to show my gratitude and not make it look like a slamming, derisory thing, because it wasn’t.
What was the reaction?
Overwhelmingly positive. To spur international discussions about empire and monarchy – wow. I’d known for a while that I have a voice, a platform. So it’s really important that what I put out is who I am. Nobody tells you about that part of fame, you just learn to understand it, to play with it and work it for yourself.
Putting out who you are – is that why you do cabaret? You began your career with a drama-school show, Victor and Barry. You won a Tony for Cabaret. And now Och & Oy!
Cabaret turns on a sixpence from laughter to tears. You have to be so vulnerable yet completely on your toes. Most of all it’s about the connection with the audience I get as me, not as a character.
But can you be vulnerable and also in control?
That’s the whole thing about being a performer. You have to authentically fake authenticity. I feel the songs, I’m in them, but that’s what my job is. I’m friends with Liza Minnelli, and early on she told me she thinks of a song like a play: You set the scene, get embroiled in it, then let it go. It’s like acting: You’re upset in a scene, but you know where your light is. [laughs] You have to weep in the light.
Tell me a Liza story.
In 2013 I did the Kennedy Center Honours with Liza, Chita Rivera, Joel Grey and Bebe Neuwirth. At the end, Liza came on and we all sang New York, New York with thousands of people on the stage behind us. It was insane. So the five of us were in rehearsal and for the life of me I could not get that shoulder move Liza does, where it goes sort of down and then back. I’m freaking out, and Liza comes over, “What is it, Alan, are you okay?” Then Chita comes over, and these two dance legends are trying to teach me a move that a 10-year-old girl in a Saturday morning dance class would pick up like that [snaps]. Finally Liza says, “Darling, just – do it your own way!”
You kept a lighted sign from a concert you did with her.
It’s in my house upstate. It spells out “Liza and Alan” in millions of light bulbs. You don’t really notice it until I plug it in. Then it’s so hot, it’s like being on a sun bed.
Let’s turn from laughter to tears. Your autobiography, Not My Father’s Son, details the emotional and physical abuse your father inflicted on you. How did you keep yourself sane?
My dad told me I was worthless, my mum told me I was precious, and I knew they couldn’t both be right. I did realize early on that my father was mentally ill, that it wasn’t about me. But the thing about having an abusive parent, it’s so violent – the suspense, the awful, utter fear. And also the chaos in your head, because the person who’s supposed to be looking after you gets pleasure from hurting you. You never really come to terms with it.
You wrote a follow-up book, Baggage.
There’s this idea, especially in America, “He’s recovered, he’s overcome, he’s triumphed.” I wrote that book to say that’s not the case. It stays with you; you just manage it better. I’m still in therapy. It’s also annoying, because dealing with a parent’s crap impedes you becoming who you are.
You did a good thing by sharing the story.
It’s like the OBE thing, that’s my way now. You’ve got to get things out. I want my work to challenge people about things they might think are true and sure.
That’s the theme of another of your one-man shows, Alan Cumming Is Not Acting His Age.
It’s about being nimble, not letting society dictate how you live your life. That means evolving, changing your mind, being open about who you are and being curious. Because the world changes. And if you don’t, you’re going to become prejudiced, because you haven’t added new thoughts, and you become afraid of things. As we know, prejudice is based on fear.
You’re touring these shows in some politically conservative places. Any incidents?
It’s great to engage with people in different parts of the world. You see that there are more sane, compassionate people than loud bigots. I did a solo show when Trump was president, Legal Immigrant, about becoming an American citizen. My point was, if you’re anti-immigration, you’re anti-American, because America is based on immigration. I was quite scared about doing it in the border states, but that was fine. Where it went nuts was West Palm Beach. Spitting distance from Mar-a-Lago.
Uh-oh.
I think a lot of them had bought season tickets and didn’t know what they were coming to see. Someone shouted, “Go back to where you came from!” I went, “Where, New York?” Then other people shouted at him. It became what we call in Scotland a raving. I got them back, but later in the show there’s another bit about immigration. A man shouted out, “Oh, get on with the show!” I said, “This is the show!” What was good, though, I finished it by getting all the audience to sing “the sun will come out tomorrow” together.
Cheeky.
I don’t do these shows just to entertain. I also want to challenge people and be a bit provocative. That’s the role of cabaret, and all art I think.
You’re about to shoot a Canadian film, Drive Back Home, in North Bay. It’s set in the 1960s, about a gay man in Toronto who’s been caught having sex in public. To avoid prison, his brother drives him to New Brunswick. What grabbed you?
The script is so good. I read it and thought, “Oh, I love this but it will never get made.” But good old Telefilm came through. It’s a first-time feature director, Mike Clowater. It’s based on some people in his family. It’s a beautiful film, desperate at times. The brothers have this awful shared trauma.
One of the highlights of Och & Oy! is your rendition of the Ben Folds song The Luckiest, a love ballad. Are you the luckiest?
I really like my life. It’s so outside the bounds of anything I’d imagined. I feel really happy. I have a great relationship, and I feel liberated to do what I want. But I’m aware of my own power in that as well. You have to value yourself. So I do feel lucky, but I don’t feel unworthy. What’s hilarious is that Grant, my husband, reminded me that the man who wrote The Luckiest has been married five times. [laughs] So that puts it in perspective.