Dan Stevens in The Heiress.

It was February when we first met up with Dan Stevens. He was standing in a wet, muddy field in Cornwall in southern England, delighting a group of extras with an exaggerated American accent. The actor was between takes on Summer in February, an indie film he was producingand starring in, about a 19th-century English artists’ commune.

Mr. Stevens was tired. He’d been rattling between Cornwall and London while shooting the third season of Downton Abbey (currently airing in the U.K., but not due out here until January), in which he plays the excruciatingly eligible Matthew Crawley, heir apparent to the old English estate. It is his career-defining role, and the breakout success of the show over the past few years has opened a number of doors on both sides of the Atlantic. He says it’s been the most productive period of his life, and the variety of his ventures that is truly impressive.

First there is the Man Booker, Britain’s most prestigious literary prize, which was last week awarded to Hilary Mantel’s sequel Bring Up The Bodies. While appearing on BBC’s The Review Show in 2011, Mr. Stevens launched into a scathing diatribe about the “readability” requirement for that year’s competition winner. A couple of weeks later, he received a phone call from Sir Peter Stothard (this year’s chairman) inviting him to be on the 2012 panel. This was, of course, “a privilege,” he said, but reading 145 novels in seven months, then rereading the longlist and rere-reading the shortlist is quite an “added strain” for someone with a day job. Between almost every take in the new series of Downton, he would force his waythrough a few more paragraphs of literary fiction. The costume department even sewed a Kindle-size pocket into his jacket for efficiency’s sake.

Along with diligently working toward the eventual completion of Summer in February (a seven-year process, so far), he is starring in Vamps, a romantic comedy by Amy Heckerling of Clueless fame, in which he plays Joey Van Helsing (the son of the notorious Dracula character), a young man who falls in love with a bloodsucker, much to the ire of his stake-wielding father, played by Wallace Shawn. “You think everyone is a vampire!” he complains to his dad at one point. The film is due out 24 hours after he makes his full Broadway debut.

Meanwhile, in his free time, Mr. Stevens launched his own online literary quarterly, The Junket, which he put together with a group of Cambridge friends who wanted an outlet for their writing. In his role as editor at large, Mr. Stevens “sharpened his pencil” for only one piece, a witty essay about the boredom of being on safari until you get the taste for blood.

Now he’s here on Broadway, playing the lead in The Heiress, the Tony Award-winning adaptation by Ruth and Augustus Goetz of the Henry James novel Washington Square. It’sa play that periodically returns to town for a limited run of sell-out shows, and this will be no exception. Particularly in light of the caliber of talent in the cast. Oscar-nominated Jessica Chastain and David Strathairn play a wealthy father and daughter, and Mr. Stevens is the canny suitor. (Sound familiar?)

Recently, sitting across the table at Cafe Edison in Midtown, dressed like an English country gent (tweed jacket, white shirt, tweed cap), he seemed invigorated by the challenge.“This feels big,” he said, picking up his coffee with both hands. “Uprooting the family and coming here has been a sort of seismic shift.” He has packed up his house in London and moved everyone—including his 2-month-old son, Aubrey, 2-year-old daughter, Willow, and wife of four years, jazz singer Susie Hariet, who is seven years his senior—across the water. It seems a little drastic for a brief stint on Broadway, but the family was eager to travel.

The quiet, soft-spoken Ms. Hariet had also been in Cornwall for the filming of Summer in February, and was remarkable source of tranquility on the set. It was striking how comfortable the two of them were in what must have been an otherwise complicated situation—what with her husband swiftly becoming a trans-Atlantic heartthrob, and all. Frequently, Ms. Hariet, then pregnant, would stand off to one side with her daughter and watch her spouse perform steamily romantic scenes, one take after another.

Hey, that’s showbiz.

The opportunity to star in The Heiress came along unexpectedly. “We weren’t necessarily thinking of doing a play,” Mr. Stevens recalled over eggs benedict. The first-person plural he casually employs refers to his wider family: a group of agents and PR-types who, over the last few years, have made a series of important decisions about his career’s “direction.” They are a tight, highly professional group of people (who are eager to walk with you through every step of writing a profile of him), only a few of whom are based in the U.K. This may give some idea as to the ambitions of Team Stevens, given that, up until a few months ago, the actor was solely working out of England. It also may give a clue as to whether he’s likely to continue in Downton Abbey, season four—if indeed there is one.

“I think the bar for fulfillment has been raised,” Mr. Stevens said enigmatically when asked about his swiftly evolving professional ambitions. “There’s a certain kind of project I’m looking for now.”

In other words, Perhap$ ...

On Broadway, the role of Morris—opposite Ms. Chastain’s Catherine Sloper—is the sort that comes easily to the 30-year-old actor: wealthy, charming and attractive, but with an egotistical complexity that Mr. Stevens may find more challenging. “It’s a character you really have to get your head around,”he said. And then there’s that 19th-century New York accent.

In recent years, American audiences have embraced a line of British actors who have trained in England and taken the leap from stage to small screen while employing a trim American accent to their advantage. Most notably we’ve seen Hugh Laurie’s House, Dominic West in The Wire and Damian Lewis in Homeland.

These are three names that regularly came up over our breakfast.

“It’s industry legend that no American actor wanted to take it on because House had no redeeming qualities ... which is precisely why a British actor would take it on!” Mr. Stevens said, laughing into his coffee. “But doors are open over here that aren’t necessarily open back home. It’s very heartening to see those sort of guys do well.”

Mr. Stevens said he has always wanted to spend some “serious” time in New York. “It’s such a creative place,” he noted. “It’s frenetic and energetic and can be very confusing. At the same time, if you’re as busy as I am, the city fits around you. I’ve been here at quieter points in my life and I just thought, ‘Wow, these guys move fast,’ and this time I’m like ‘Hmm, yeah, this seems about my pace.’

“It’s a mad, mad city but I’m in a mad place at the minute.”

Mr. Stevens’s rise has been remarkably steady. Adopted at birth, he gained an academic scholarship to a prestigious English academy, where at 13 he landed the role of Macbeth in the school play, beating out children five years older than him for the part. His audition has since been written about by the director, Jonathan Smith, his former teacher, now a friend and the author of Summer in February. Mr. Smith is one of two major figures who have undeniably assisted his ever-inflating career

The other is Sir Peter Hall.

After high school, Mr. Stevens studied English at Cambridge, where he began to shed his “willfully difficult” attitude, and discovered comedy. Performing with the prestigious sketch group the Cambridge Footlights, he also tried stand-up and began venturing to London to entertain rooms of as few as 12 people. “I never aspired to be a stand-up comedian, but I always wanted to try it,” he said. Admittedly, many of his appearancesfell “flat on their face,” but even that, he said, was an experience.

While at Cambridge, Mr. Stevens impressed as Macbeth again, this time alongside Rebecca Hall, the daughter of Sir Peter, a founding member of the Royal Shakespeare Company, who naturally came to watch. The man has seen “the Scottish play” plenty of times; he’s not easily impressed.

Sir Peter Hall subsequently gave Mr. Stevens his first West End debut and his first West End lead, casting him in four productions in total, including Orlando in As You Like It, which eventually transferred to New York. Four years later came Downton. Now, here he is again.

“You have to remember the people to be thankful to along the way,” Mr. Stevens said with signature humility. “But I always maintained a degree of self-belief.”

No doubt that’s getting easier, what with the rapturous reception Downton has enjoyed.

“I remember, we had the staff from Buckingham Palace come and visit the set,” Mr. Stevens recalled. “They serve in the royal household, and they said every Sunday night—I think they all live on the top floor, in the servants’ quarters of Buckingham Palace—they all gather in one room and watch the show. That is astonishing.”

Whether another season of Downton will come to pass is anyone’s guess. He’s a little coy about the subject.

“If I was given the opportunity to work more here, I would take it,” he said, an admission that, while benign, seems guaranteed to chill the blood of Downton fanatics. Then he added, meaningfully, “I think it will all become clear.”

A week after our breakfast, Mr. Stevens emailed as he was returning from London, where he’d just presented Hilary Mantel with her Man Booker prize. He was due back in New York that evening and expected on stage to recommence previews for The Heiress. He was exhausted.

“Last night was momentous,” he wrote. “[I’m] celebrating the end of an extraordinarily challenging few months.”

editorial@observer.com

Don't believe us? Take a look.

GOODBAR. (Hassan E. Hussein)

As you enter the capacious quarters of the Public Theater in the East Village, you walk through a construction site: a grand building being torn out from the inside. The space is currently undergoing renovations, but still acts as the primary location for the eighth year of Under the Radar, New York’s downtown experimental theater festival, which runs through Jan. 15.

This feeling of restoration never seems to leave as you become privy to the rich, eclectic and fiercely original performances the two weeks has to offer. Experimental theater, by definition, avoids convention, often leaving audiences questioning the value of the genre. But doubters must make the trip downtown: the offerings are impressive and remarkably diverse, including media like video, music, dance and puppetry, produced by companies based in Europe and America.

German and U.K. theater troupe Gob Squad encapsulates the spirit of the festival. The company is showing two features through the two weeks—as well as holding a soup drive (tickets are reduced if you bring a can of soup with you)—and the highlight is undoubtedly the intensely funny Super Night Shot. It is a film about films, or rather, a play about a film about films and also a collaboration with the unwitting public.

The performance involves a video recorded for exactly one hour before the audience is seated: the play is put on before the play begins. Heading into the streets, four actors each take on a role and make a movie using the city as the landscape and residents as extras, in what they term their “War on Anonymity.”

Although resorting to contrived devices to push the feature on—the whole thing seemed a little too squeaky clean for an off-the-cuff production—the spontaneity of interaction between actor and audience, and then audience again, is wholeheartedly entertaining. This is made effective by the expert charm of the four actors, who lure their counterparts to … well … kiss a rabbit.

Italian theater company Motus reviews the idea of documentary. Alexis. A Greek Tragedy—a courageous production based on the 2008 shooting of a Greek teenager by a policeman—uses the events that followed to discuss the usefulness of documentary making.

Motus uses Brechtian techniques with, on the most part, clinical precision. For example, a line of red tape is stretched out of the theater, across the street and down the block (Brecht’s main aim was for the audience to take the ideas of the play out with them), while the performers compose themselves for the next installment (remaining on stage during a scene change is quintessential Brecht).

The show’s climax is a corny mustering of as many audience members as possible to come onto the floor and “see from a different angle.” Nonetheless, Alexis remains an exciting, harrowing and intelligent show that leaves you pondering all the right things. Its connections to Occupy Wall Street—with recent newspaper clippings displayed on screen and the recurrent theme of the many protesting against the few—means it’s sure to be a hard hitter among those interested in that cause.

The early journals of writer, thinker and critic Susan Sontag are brought to the stage in the Builders Association’s production of Sontag: Reborn. Two characters, young Sontag and old Sontag—both performed by Moe Angelo with the latter in the form of film—punctuate each other’s speech. The script was adapted from the journals along with Ms. Sontag’s own annotations on her writing and although this makes for flat dialogue, the premise is superb.

Joshua Higgason’s intelligent design is easy on the eye, but it’s the performance of Ms. Angelo that shines through. Her acting is astounding. One easily forgets that she is playing both roles as she draws you in with nuance after nuance, gently reminding us of the frailties of the growing mind. Her performance is especially impressive considering that Ms. Sontag is not an easy character to get a grip on. She, herself, believes artists should not be judged by their behavior but by their art.

The critic’s journals are self-indulgent and sometimes quite literally masturbatory, but director Marianne Weems’s gilded touch makes it a pleasure to watch this ambitious interaction. The Builders are a rare treat for the theatergoer: a company that satisfies both intellectually and aesthetically. For cheap.

Alexis. A Greek Tragedy. (Pierre Borasci)

It is not very often that a regular theatergoer is completely stumped, but Waterwell’s production of Goodbar accomplishes exactly that. The term “live concept album” is being attached to the production, but it is more than that. Goodbar embraces every convention of musical theater and then turns it on its head. It is a musical for people who don’t like musicals, and for that matter, for people who do. Some numbers resonate more than others, but as a concept it is electrifying, with performances from Waterwell’s collaborator Bambi to match.

The group excels in this original adaptation of the single-woman classic, Looking for Mr. Goodbar, with terrific energy. Even the volume transcends any preconceptions of performance (earplugs are provided on entrance). Kevin Townley and Hanna Cheek are left breathless as they push their lungs to the limit for the full 80 minutes, all the while supported by a delightfully macabre ensemble. The splendid costumes alone deserve a whole review.

Having said that, this brash, unforgiving production may not be to more conservative theatergoers’ taste.

Among the other noteworthy productions are Lick but Don’t Swallow, in which an angel comes from heaven to find she is a porn star, and The Table, which is theatrical puppetry inspired by Beckett, Ikea and the Bible, from award-winning British company Blind Summit Theatre.

Just about any performance at this festival—no matter how seemingly outlandish—is well worth a look. Providing consistently strong productions at interesting downtown venues, at a time when New York is filled with talent scouts from the Association of Performing Arts Presenters, and thus attracting the best theater companies there are, Under the Radar deserves to be supported.

hkrempels@observer.com

Where are the jodhpurs? (Bull Stock Media)

When we first expressed interest in attending the Professional Bull Riders event last weekend at Madison Square Garden, PR man Jack Carnefix apprised us of the rules. Number one, we must “buckle up.” Number two, if we “go on Friday [we’re] going to want to come back Saturday. And if we go Saturday [we’re] going to want to come back on Sunday.”

(It is important to note at this point that The Transom is a wire-thin arts reporter, a Brit whose Queen’s English and Hugh Grantish stammer sounds like a royal parody.)

With weekend plans disregarded, there followed an anxious ride on the metro to Penn Station, early Friday afternoon, wondering what to expect. Will the bulls be chasing a fox? Would there be a ringleader with a bugle? Should we have bought our jodhpurs?

On our arrival, we joined the herd of cowboy hats and flannel shirts streaming into the arena, welcomed by the sound of Kenny Rodgers’s “Oh Ruby Don’t Take Your Love to Town.” At the bar more burly blokes in flannels and their denim-clad lasses drank Jack Daniels, all the time singing to an obscure compilation of country music that was foreign to this Englishman’s ears.

It appears New York is not as American as one had imagined. Or rather, is very American, but only when you give it a chance to be.

Up to this point, we believed cowboy hats to be a thing of thrift stores, which even then had remained on the shelves. Now, what we thought had been Midtown felt more like the Southwest. At least how we imagined the Southwest. We felt out of our depth and overdressed. Or maybe underdressed—we weren’t sure.

The riders filed in: jeans, boots, buckles and hats. Several posed for pictures with the event’s first-place trophy, which had been set up in a room of its own, while the rest went straight to the bar.

“A lot of the guys like to drink. I don’t,” last year’s winner, Valdiron de Oliveira, told us while eyeing up the trophy. Mr. de Oliveira was one of the few without a can in his hand and appeared, shall we say, as approachable as a man of his size could seem to an undernourished introvert.

“I think of this as work but about half of them drink. More important for me is the win, but it’s hard because we have the greatest bulls in the world.” He paused and smiled before continuing. “I think you’re going to get a surprise tonight.”

He was immediately right. The enormous New York Giants tight end and aptly named Bear Pascoe towered over us as we turned around. He had come to look at the trophy. Mr. Pascoe, “what should we expect tonight?” we heard ourselves ask.

“A lot of action-packed bull riding. Guys riding bulls. It’s going to be fast, it’s going to be full and you’re going to enjoy it.”

The anticipation was too much to bear (pun intended). We stepped into the arena and gawped at the pre-event proceedings. There were explosions, heavy metal music so loud as to be indecipherable, trucks, a prayer, the national anthem and popcorn—in that order.

A clown and his posse. (Bull Stock Media)

Having spent the first 10 minutes in the “Party Area,” we decided to ignore our instincts and take a closer look at the livestock. Traversing the barrier that divided VIP from P, we anonymously made our way up to the bullpen, where we stood over the riders as they mounted their massive animals, some the size of small trucks. We were shoulder to hip with Silvano Alves, the reigning PBR tour champion. His eccentric preparation regimen had him alternating between jokes with the staff and spiteful slapping of his chest and arms. It was hard to discern between self-encouragement and flagellation. We decided on both. Ensuring we were out of arm’s reach of Mr. Alves we focused on the sport. Dakota Beck, one of the younger riders at 20 years old, took his turn. A couple of seconds in, he was bucked off his bull—as he fell, a vagrant horn speared him in the side of the face. The crowd cheered, the riders were quiet and Mr. Beck remained on the floor for quite sometime.

The riders watched, numb and spooked by the brutal inevitability of harm their sport always guarantees.

Afterward, we approached Mr. Beck, who spoke in a low voice with his hand covering the side of his mouth. “Yeah, I was knocked out and I don’t remember anything from it. You put your life at risk but we love doing it,” he said.

“I’m just going to go home, get some rest and come back tomorrow. I got a little headache.”

As is to be expected at an event that has recently partnered with the beer of the same name (Pabst Blue Ribbon, Professional Bull Riders. Get it?), copious amounts of drinking is a major time consumer both in and outside the bullpen.

Chatting to rider Douglas Duncan about how “a lot of riders go out hung over on the Sunday,” a young, red-haired girl in all pink sports clothes approached. Mr. Duncan appeared flattered and accepted her request to sign her hat. He shook her hand but the bull-riding fan wanted more from her hero. She wanted a hug. He obliged before backing away and humbly mumbling, “Um, thank you for enjoying our sport.” -Henry Krempels

PBR (Professional Bull Riders) stuck two of its finest bulls in front of the Stock Exchange this afternoon, in a bid to promote this weekends opening of the Built Ford Tough Series at Madison Square Garden. 

They also had on hand, two championship bull riders in Douglas Duncan—ranked 16th in the world—and current champion Silvano Alves. Mr. Duncan told The Observer of the friendly reception he has received the last two years. "I love the city. People see you in the street with a cowboy hat and they look at you bit strange...but they're always friendly. I can tell that they're interested."

The bulls, caged but not sedate, stood guard at the entrance of the Stock Exchange taking umbrage with anyone who tried to use his camera, including us.

But we found them all right—they were all wearing felt facial hair, one of the many references to the show they implemented in their protest. As we walked over we heard another. "Six seasons and a movie!" they chanted, barely audible over the Christmas cheer. It was a chant used by one of the characters.

"These fans are not only here but they're rabid," a young fan enthused. "Community is one of the smartest and most funny shows on television."

"Was!" someone shouted.

Then the group was moved to song. Their rendition of "Oh Christmas, Troy," was the third and final reference to the show (unless any more went over our heads). Meanwhile, The Observer spoke with another fan about the turnout.

"It's a little disappointing but I think we've got enough attention," he said.

hkrempels@observer.com

Jonathan Ames at the Season Premiere of 'Bored To Death' in 2010

“One drink for everybody!” hollered Jonathan Ames. He was standing center stage at the Brooklyn Inn to administer last rites for his show, Bored To Death.

In the wake of the series' cancellation by HBO, Mr. Ames headed to Twitter to tell “fans of @boredtodeath: come to the brooklyn inn tomorrow night at 10pm & i'll buy you a drink!”

Deeply saddened by the news, The Observer headed there early. Not early enough apparently, as it was already at capacity. Lucky for us then that when the writer turned up at 10pm sharp, he spoke to the masses who had gathered outside. In a speech lasting around 20 minutes he “exploited” various New York based actors who had turned out for him. He thanked everybody involved in the show, then he started drinking.

“I’m actually in a good space. I just needed closure,” he told The Observer. “I’m going to lose a lot of money tonight. You know, I would have like this for the premiere, something backwards is going on here.”

Earlier in the day, Mr. Ames tweeted again: “i had some beautiful ideas for a new season of @boredtodeathwhich i can tell you about at the bk inn.” So? What were they, we wondered?

“I know I shouldn’t have tweeted that today, I can’t say what was going to happen—I could make a movie out of it or something....They were all going to get in a lot of trouble.”

While we were speaking with him, the cinematographer of How To Make It In America, Tim Ives, approached. “Jonathan I just wanted to offer my condolences," he said. "It was a beautiful show. Cheers.”

How To Make It In America had also been cancelled.

It was a bizarre event, but one befitting of the show. Its spirit, everyone agreed, would surely live on. “A lot of great shows remain great shows when they are cut short,” said one fan, who bore a striking resemblance to Jason Schwartzman (actually almost everybody there bore that resemblance).

“Thank you and I’m sorry,” Ames said penitently, as we took our leave.

hkrempels@observer.com

Making his way down the red carpet, the young Mr. Horn spoke of his gratitude towards Tom Hanks and Sandra Bullock—his co-stars—neither of whom “had any responsibility to be so kind to me”. He then outwitted one reporter who attempted to get him to describe the poster, (which features the young boys face hidden behind his hands), asking him if he was always that sad.

He replied at length about Asperger's syndrome, a form of which his character suffers from.

The rest of the cast were also impressed by the 13 year old, many of them referencing his eloquence. He told us how he landed his role due to a winning appearance on Teen Jeopardy—after which he was contacted by the producers.

“We hope that this film will show people that the best way to overcome grief is to connect with other people,” he explained. “But I can’t personally know that because I’m lucky enough not to have been through it myself.”

Summing up the focus of the film the young actor surmised. “We’ve tried our best to portray the story in a way that could be seen as accurate. We’ve done our research on 9/11, the victims of 9/11 and also on Asperger's syndrome.”

Max Von Sydow, who plays Horn’s grandfather, told us about what the film means to New York and the difficulties involved in taking a character away from its author. “It is a chance for us to come together. There are certain things that help in the healing process and I think this is one of them.”
He also told us of the challenges the actors (and script writers) faced in conveying the deeper themes of Mr. Foer’s novel. “We had to change [the script] once or twice throughout the process...I’m interested to see what he thinks.”

We also ran into Viola Davis, who in addition to having a role in Extremely Loud, got news of her Golden Globe nomination for best actress, for her turn in the The Help that same day. She was asleep when she heard the news. Of her new film, she said, “It reminds us of a time when we woke up to the fact that we need each other to feel and we need each other to grieve.”

During the pre-screening introductions, Mr. Hanks, seemingly in a volubale mood, made the most of his audience—throwing his hands up in the air and punctuating his contemporaries comments with witticisms of his own. As the credits rolled the cast received a tearful ovation and we too headed home with a lump in our throat.

Approaching the Ziegfeld Theater, it was evident that a wide assortment of notables had appeared for the screening of The Iron Lady, in which Ms. Streep plays the much-maligned former British prime minister, Margaret Thatcher. Indeed, the number of nominations Meryl Streep has received over her extensive career is roughly equal to the tally of stars who turned out to support the actress last Tuesday evening, the likes of which included Fran Lebowitz, Christiane Amanpour, Gloria Steinem, Olivia Wilde, Sofia Coppola and Tina Brown.

As widely admired as Maggie is abhorred, Ms. Streep inspired model Coco Rocha—who tip-toed down the red carpet in her Zac Posen dress—to offer, “I think, who better than Meryl? I would hope she gets an Oscar, but I know there’s a lot of talk about others too.” (Ms. Close, perhaps?)

Only a few blocks away, the red carpet was wearing thin beneath the heels of celebrities and film impresarios at the Albert Nobbs premiere. Ingrid Sischy, owl-eyed as usual, posed with a demure Sandra Brant, while author Nicholas Sparks and artist Eric Fischl beamed holiday smiles for the flashbulbs.

We spoke to director Rodrigo Garcia, who explained that the film, which centers around a woman in 19th-century Ireland compelled to live for 30 years as a male waiter, was at heart not about gender roles or sexuality. “I think it’s about the aspects of yourself, of your personality, of your identity that you have to sacrifice in order to fit into your world,” he said. The Observer was curious to know what he had sacrificed as a Hollywood director. “I’m not telling you,” he replied with a bemused grin.

The newly married Sinead O’Connor appeared, wearing a long-sleeved, zip-up Armani frock made from a fabric resembling most closely a couture bathmat. We asked Ms. O’Connor if she, like the protagonist in Albert Nobbs, ever felt ostracized by society. “I hadn’t really thought about it. Let me see … No,” she said, scratching her recently reshaved head with long red nails as she pondered the question. Ms. O’Connor sings a haunting lullaby at the end of the film written, as it happens, by Glenn Close herself. How was Ms. Close as a lyricist?  “Oh, Bob Dylan has to watch out. Seriously,” she said.

Finally, Ms. Close and co-star Mia Wasikowska made their respective grand entrances.

We first chatted with Ms. Wasikowska, a soft-spoken Aussie starlet recently baptized as one of young Hollywood’s best and brightest. After Ms. Wasikowska humbly heaped praises on her co-star, we asked her which of Ms. Close’s films she liked the most. “I have to say 101 Dalmations,” she said, perhaps too young to have fully appreciated The Big Chill.

Ms. Close shared with us her thoughts on the curious character of Albert Nobbs. “She has no way to make a living. She’s doing what she does in order to survive,” Ms. Close said with passionate intensity. “It’s about a time when women had absolutely no rights whatsoever,” she said, hinting at the film’s political slant. This was not Ms. Close’s first time donning Albert Nobbs’s bow tie and silver serving platter, however, having performed the role on stage in the early 1980s. The story she said, stuck with her. “It’s a very different character and that’s rare. That’s what we all look for.”

Back at the Ziegfeld, we were just settling into our seat, eager to see Ms. Streep transformed into the intrepid stateswoman Margaret Thatcher, slightly aslant cuspid and all. Ms. Streep indeed made easy work of her difficult role in a charismatic performance that does Ms. Thatcher many favors—portraying the Iron Lady as charming, witty, wry, vulnerable and other adjectives not typically associated with the rock-ribbed Brit.

Postscreening, we made our way to Fourty Four at Roylaton, which was at capacity, guests already spilling out onto the street. We arrived after the first round of Champagne had been consumed, only to watch the second round retrieved by the waiter with military speed—fueling the already enthusiastic crowds.

We soon found ourselves quite literally on the heels of Anne Hathaway, who has made well known her admiration of Ms. Streep. “It was the best performance I’ve ever seen on screen, ever.” She said, as we turned to leave. “If that wasn’t clear, I loved it.”

But The Observer’s night was far from over. We followed a pack of roving socialites up Fifth Avenue, hoping beyond hope they would lead us to the Albert Nobbs after-party. We soon found ourselves square in front of the Armani Ristorante, where we walked up the mazelike staircase past the silent, sentry mannequins. Upstairs, a raucous party was in full swing, where Patti Smith, Lance Bass, Padma Lakshmi, Viola Davis, Vikram Chatwal and Katie Lee were talking loudly, straining to be heard above the festive din.

Cocktail party curmudgeon Lou Reed posted at a table casting his fur-lined parka aside. We asked Mr. Reed what he thought of the film. “Wonderful, fabulous, magnificent,” he said in a perfectly calibrated monotone. “I love Glenn Close, never been better, it’s the role of a lifetime,” he said, his tone dipping slightly at that last word, indicating an end to our conversation.

The crowd was in fine spirits, nibbling on tuna tartare and spinach croquettes. Suddenly, the unmistakable aroma of truffles pervaded the room. Trying to follow the sweet fungal scent, we watched with gastronomic dismay as a tray of ravioli with quail egg and black truffle passed directly over our heads and was delivered directly to the Reed/Sischy/Brant table in the corner. Finding solace in a warm pizzette, we soon found ourselves with a perfectly ebullient Paul Haggis. How had he liked the film? “I wasn’t able to see it because I came straight from work. I write and I write and sooner or later I get it right, but not yet,” he said animatedly. We asked who, if forced to choose, he would rather dine with, Meryl Streep or Glenn Close. This provoked what can only be described as a giggle fit from Mr. Haggis. “Oh, that’s a pretty good question,” he said recovering. “Well, I choose Glenn Close tonight, but Meryl Streep is wonderful, isn’t she?” So diplomatic, Mr. Haggis!

After Sinead O’Connor, now barefoot, sang the film’s song, we collected our coat and headed for an empty, awaiting elevator only to be joined moments later by Lou Reed and a female companion. We asked Mr. Reed who deserves the Oscar, Meryl or Glenn. “That’s tough,” he said. “I haven’t seen Meryl yet,” he said, donning his black coat and going to meet his black town car.

hkrempels@observer.com, eknutsen@observer.com

"You obviously don't know Tom Cruise!" enthused Steven Baldwin. "That's what he does best."

An enormous red carpet—befitting of the box-office enormity of the film—had been erected in the middle of 54th street outside the Ziegfeld Theater. Traffic was diverted and pedestrians had ringed the tent to stare in, unsure what they were looking for but sure they should be looking. The evening was the climax of the world tour for the film but Mr. Cruise was showing no sign of weariness, in fact, he was relentless in his desire to meet and greet.

The co-writers of the movie, Josh Applebaum and Andre Nemec told The Observer that if anything Mr. Cruise was at his most adventurous during filming. "He was ready to do any stunt or any bit of action that we put in front of him. If you see the movie, you'll see that he went as far as he could...We didn't have to tone anything down."

By this time, the rest of the cast was making its way down the carpet. Simon Pegg, the British actor from films like Shaun of the Dead and Run Fat Boy Run also stars in the latest Mission Impossible. How does a career follow a path like that, we wondered? "J.J. Abrams saw me in it, simple as that, there's no magic formula."

Anil Kapoor, Bollywood hero, spoke of his pride at being part of such an international cast, with a great group spirit. So would he be sad now it was over?

"No. I'm enjoying it."

Finally, after an hour of waiting The Observer had the chance to speak to the star of the film (as well as one of its producers) Mr. Cruise. "I've just finished my first musical and I had a blast doing that. I’m making a film right now and I’ve got about three films I’m going to make over the next year and a half. So there's always something."

He turned away to finally take his seat, but not before one reporter shouted, "Is there anything impossible for you Mr. Cruise?

"Getting into the film apparently.”

hkrempels@observer.com