'Shucked' star Alex Newell steals the show at the Tony Awards

Broadway’s golden ears

Mazel tov. Broadway had the Tonys. Great idea especially when the best acting’s done in Washington. But everyone watches this thing whether they need the sleep or not.

Notice I pre-told you last week that the corn was as high as an elephant’s eye and that Alex Newell of “Shucked,” plus “Leopoldstadt,” would win. Kindly notice.

The pros say Alex in his/her plus-size shmatta actually saved whatever the show was. He spotlighted transgender, goes by he/she/they. He was poster boy for a Broadway first-timer. And now panting in his giant-size bra to grab the lead in another shot of “Dreamgirls.”

Also, he was the absolute last to arrive at the Carlyle for p.r. man Rick Miramontez’s traditional after-party. It was already “Last call.” The hotel venue was officially shutting. And in flounces Alex.

6 a.m.! He actually showed at 6 a.m.! Those not already stoned or still grateful for slightly stiff leftover scraps had waited. Not that they could’ve gotten their arms around Alex, but they wanted to hug.

And where will he position his statuette? He told me: “My bathroom.”

Playtime still making music

The Antoinette Perry Awards began 1947. Star then? Marlon Brando. Its productions we’re still producing: Like Tennessee Williams’ “A Streetcar Named Desire.” Comedy: Tallulah Bankhead was in some floppola crapola “The Eagle Has Two Heads.” James Mason landed on his behind in “Bathsheba.” But its musicals “High Button Shoes,” “Finian’s Rainbow,” “Brigadoon” still make music.

That era’s famous story: Lunt and Fontanne had just made “The Guardsman,” their first film. Lynn Fontanne alone viewed it and was distraught. In tears. She cried: “Alfred, you photograph without lips and I look old, haggard, ugly, my tongue is thick and I lisp and I stumble around ungracefully as if I forgot my lines and my feet are big and my clothes hang like sacks on me.”

Overwhelmed by her sobs, Alfred Lunt muttered: “No lips, eh?”

Year One

The original Tony Awards were Easter Sunday. No statuettes. Scrolls. Gents got a money clip, females a compact. Venue? Our Waldorf, which may eventually reopen when the Empire State Building goes condo.

Things were reasonable then. A ticket? $15. Loaf of bread 17 cents. New car $350. Chicken — 47 cents a pound.

1947. A big time year. Dior’s first collection. Cold War starts. CIA’s established. Princess Elizabeth engaged, then wed to Prince Philip. Jackie Robinson first African American in the Major Leagues. And per the Chinese zodiac — “The Year of the Pig.”

Franks a lot

Meanwhile, if itching for an award-winning next day snack, try this which I will never try. The $29 hot dog. New Midtown place Mischa’s 9-inch, dry-aged smoked brisket doggie. Weighs a half-pound. Rendered fat, grill seared, sides like pimento cheese, bacon-habanero chili crisp, cucumber relish, kimchi and mustard stained yellower with flowers from Georgia.

The theater’s cheaper than the bicarb.

To recap our historic theatrical awards brings up the oldie from moviedom’s late director Alfred Hitchcock, who claimed: “It is reported that I said, ‘Actors are cattle.’ No. I never ever said that. I only said, ‘They should be treated like cattle.’”

Only in New York, kids, only in New York. 

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