In the end, it all comes back to Paddington.
The beloved marmalade addict made his debut in Michael Bond’s 1958 children’s classic A Bear Called Paddington and has since become England’s unofficial mascot. He has gone on to headline several dozen books, star in three blockbuster Hollywood films and even share the screen with Queen Elizabeth II.
But that all feels like preamble to what might be his ultimate showcase: Paddington the Musical, a brand new West End production that should have Disney quaking in its boots — or at least dispatching Imagineering spies to the Savoy Theatre to replicate its cutting-edge theatrical magic. I caught a preview performance of the show, and it was indeed a delight — one of many on a recent jaunt to the British capital that featured some of the best entertainment I’ve seen in years.
It all began with a revival of The Weir, the 1997 play by Irish playwright Conor McPherson, starring Brendan Gleeson. Set one gusty night in a dingy pub in rural Ireland, the one-acter brings together a handful of regulars and a newcomer — the pretty Valerie (Kate Phillips), a recent transplant from Dublin. As the evening progresses, each relays a supernatural tale, until the true nature of Valerie’s presence is revealed.
The brilliance of The Weir is in the way it captures the nuances of familiarity. The lived-in relationships of pub regulars come vibrantly alive on the stage of the Harold Pinter Theatre. Gleeson, an Oscar nominee for 2022’s The Banshees of Inisherin, has never been married to better material. His Jack is a local mechanic gifted with a blistering wit that masks decades of alcohol-numbed regret. It’s a masterful performance that demands to be seen.
You’ll likely leave The Weir craving a drink. I tucked into The Lamb & Flag in Covent Garden, which has been an operating pub since 1772. That’s a lot of time to perfect the pulling of a pint or the making of a Scotch egg, both of which I enjoyed as I contemplated The Weir‘s deceptive depth.
I felt the need to see a queen, any queen, so I hightailed it the next day to the Victoria and Albert Museum in South Kensington and wandered through the astonishing Marie Antoinette Style exhibit to experience what the museum calls “the most fashionable (and ill-fated) monarch in history.”
The gowns alone, many belonging to M.A. herself, are reason enough to visit. Her tiny, high-heeled shoes are another. (They reminded me of Prince’s tiny, high-heeled shoes on display at Paisley Park.) They even have her drab prison uniform and, gulp, the guillotine blade that ended her life. Long live the Queens.
The reunion of Belgian director Ivo van Hove and Bryan Cranston, who teamed in 2018 for a Broadway adaptation of Network, seemed worthy of checking out, particularly as it saw van Hove returning to Arthur Miller territory with a revival of All My Sons at Wyndham’s Theatre near Leicester Square. (He won a Tony for his 2015 production of Miller’s A View From the Bridge.) That it also stars Mike Leigh MVP Marianne Jean-Baptiste only sweetened the deal.
While Network reveled in technology, this production is refreshingly spare — save for an opening sequence that drew applause. The real special effects here are in Cranston and Jean-Baptiste’s volcanic performances. It’s a master class in restraint — until a final 20 minutes that will simply take the wind out of you. Remember to breathe.
The following morning I was offered a tour of BBC Broadcasting House in Westminster by my friend Arif, a producer there, and was awed by their newsroom — a massive beehive of electronic activity that felt like a sci-fi movie set. Afterwards we had tea and conversation about movies just steps away from two legendary artifacts of an actual science fiction set, the original Tardis and a Dalek from Doctor Who.
As the temperature dipped later that afternoon, I ducked into Fortnum & Mason on Piccadilly to check out the expensive tea-time goodies and holiday decorations — and, fine, use the bathrooms, WiFi and warm myself up — before hailing a cab across town to Islington to the Almeida Theatre, where an adaptation of the Booker Prize-winning novel The Line of Beauty by Alan Hollinghurst was to begin.
Forget Marie Antoinette; this was the real “let them eat cake” chapter of the trip. Set in Margaret Thatcher’s Britain of the 1980s, the play, adapted by Jack Holden, follows a gay Oxford grad (Jasper Talbot) who insinuates himself — not in any sinister way, but just out of convenience for all parties — into the lives of a very wealthy, politically connected conservative family.
“This production includes depictions of sex and drug usage, references to suicide, self-harm, HIV, mental illness and homophobic language,” the production literature warns. Where do I sign up? And it delivers as advertised. Let’s put it this way: What The Weir is to Guinness, The Line of Beauty is to cocaine. Director Michael Grandage stages it all slickly and wittily. Profound? Not particularly. But neither were the ’80s.
It was cold and raining when I got to Dennis Severs’ House in Spitafields. It’s hard to explain what Dennis Severs’ House actually is. It’s a sort of immersive theatrical experience, except there are no actors. Just an obsessively outfitted 18th-century London townhouse, candlelit and decorated for Christmas, as if the family that lived there had suddenly vanished, Weapons-style. Speaking at all is prohibited.
The irony of the whole thing is that Severs was a Californian. He moved to London in the late 1960s and was by all accounts a true eccentric. I met up with an old friend of mine, a fabric merchant named Paul, afterwards at Comptons, a historic gay pub in Soho. He knew Severs personally, and told me some wild stories about him (some set in the actual house) that would make the boys in The Line of Beauty blush. Severs bought the house in 1979 and devoted the rest of his life (he died of AIDS complications in 1999) to realizing his fantastical vision.
After all that Georgian era cosplay, I had a desire for something newer, louder and generally less polite. And so I took the underground to the 02 Arena in Southwest London, where Radiohead was playing one of four shows — part of a surprise tour that also saw stops in Madrid, Bologna, Copenhagen (delayed for illness) and finally Berlin. The staging was in the round (a recent trend I’ve noticed in recent arena tours like Nine Inch Nails and Tame Impala), but the Oxfordshire lads took it one further by opening in something that resembled an MMA cage.
Eventually the LED panel walls rose to unveil Thom Yorke and the brothers Greenwood et al. — a welcome sight, to be sure. It has been 10 years since Radiohead’s last album, seven since their last live shows. (Truth be told, this show was the impetus for the whole trip. As someone noted, I’m something of a Radioheadhead.) The pause has served them well. The mesmerizing set was wild and invigorating, and Yorke’s paranoid visions of technology run amok amid contagions, isolation and various other modern anxieties have never felt more current or, strangely enough, heartfelt.
But back to the bear. Ahead of Paddington the Musical at the resplendent Savoy Theatre, which famously premiered Gilbert and Sullivan’s operettas, I made sure to stop into another one of my favorite London bars: the art deco American Bar at the adjoining Savoy Hotel, which bills itself as “the longest surviving cocktail bar in London.” (I’m drawn to enduring watering holes; it suggests they know how to make a drink.)
All this talk of marmalade sandwiches was getting me hungry, so the following day I made sure to stop into the Dorchester Hotel in Mayfair for afternoon tea. I was seated in the dramatic Promenade, the hub of the property, next to a mirrored piano that I was told belonged to Liberace and had been shipped to London from Palm Springs.
The piano used to be off to the side somewhere, but since a recent renovation of the swanky hotel, sister property to the Beverly Hills Hotel and Hotel Bel-Air, it has graduated to the centerpiece of the room. A striking collage portrait of Elizabeth Taylor by Maria Rivans watched over us nearby. It wasn’t long before a handsome pianist — no sparkly rings or floor-length chinchilla capes in sight — took a seat and began tickling Liberace’s ivories.
The only thing more extravagant than the piano was the tea service itself, which also involves champagne, all-you-can-eat finger sandwiches (yes, I will have another serving of the truffle egg mayonnaise on white bread, thank you) and pastries and scones, with a variety of jams and clotted cream. Paddington would deeply approve.
That was almost my best meal in London — had I not, on the recommendation of a Dorchester employee, made my way to Woven by Adam Smith at Coworth Park in Ascot. Coworth Park is kind of Downton Abbey by way of Martha Stewart, a countryside retreat on the outskirts of town renowned for its groomed polo fields (Prince Harry used to swing a mallet there) and spa services.
Bite for bite, Woven offered a fanciful meal as intricate, delicious and memorable as L.A.’s own Michelin-starred darling, Somni, my favorite L.A. meal of 2025. The perfect cap to the perfect trip.
Until we meet again, London.
Liberace Piano at The Dorchester.
Dorchester Collection
