Beyond Glory: Stephen Lang as Eight Medal of Honor Recipients

Almost half of all U.S. Medal of Honor honorees served during the Civil War. It has been bestowed posthumously 621 times throughout history. Currently, only seventy-seven recipients are still living. In all ways they are the elite of the elite. Adapting Larry Smith’s popular history of select recipients, Stephen Lang mounted a one-man tribute show that played Off-Broadway, throughout America, and on military bases all over the world. Cross-cutting between several of Lang’s more notable “command performance,” director-editor Larry Brand shows the theater piece in its entirety while conveying its wider significance during a time of war and armed hostility in Beyond Glory (trailer here), which releases today on VOD.

Strictly speaking, Lang is kind of white-ish, but he plays two African Americans, one Asian American, and several working class white ethnic Americans, without any stilted awkwardness. After all, it would be un-American to exclude anyone on the basis of race. There is no question each recipient’s story merits inclusion. Of course, they all have the Medal of Honor to prove it.

John William Finn’s real life heroics on December 7^th put the Pearl Harbor movie to shame, as Michael Bay would probably be the first to admit. Clarence Eugene Sasser’s Vietnam era Medal was awarded for his efforts saving lives under enemy fire, despite the shrapnel in his back—a distinction that means quite a bit to him. Perhaps the most colorful character would be Lewis Millett Sr., who led the last recorded American battlefield bayonet in Korea. James Bond Stockdale is indeed the Stockdale Ross Perot chose as his running mate in 1992, but he should really be remembered for the harrowing seven and a half years he spent in the Hanoi Hilton as the highest ranking Navy POW.

Given his profoundly humble origins, Vietnam was almost an empowering experience for Nicky Daniel Bacon, but that does not diminish from his battlefield heroics. Lang seems to have the most fun playing tough talking New Yorker Hector Albert Cafferata, Jr., who easily gets the show’s funniest lines. However, he is still humble to a fault chronicling his actions at what would come to be known as “Fox Hill” near Chosin Reservoir.

Lang and Brand close with Vernon Joseph Baker and Daniel Inouye, staging limited interaction (through the magic of editing) between the two men, both of whom had lesser but meaningful awards upgraded to Medals of Honor in 1998 and 2000. Their experiences also mirror each other, having served with distinction in the Italian theater while facing racism at home and within the service.

There is no shortage of moments in Beyond Glory to choke you up and make you misty eyed. Brand’s mastercut approach is actually quite effective at relieving the inherent staginess of Lang’s one-man show. No matter who the actor is playing, he is always locked-in, but the changing sets and backdrops breaks up the otherwise static visuals.

You can be confident it treats its subjects with respect, because veteran’s advocate Gary Sinise supplied the voice of the military announcer. Frankly, it is rather baffling that the film version of Beyond Glory has not had a more traditional theatrical release, at least in Red State military communities (especially with James Cameron on board as an executive producer), but it should find a large and appreciative audience on VOD. Recommended for general audiences, Beyond Glory is now available on iTunes and other platforms.

Iranian Theater Festival: Bootleg Islam

Negin Farsad has a lot of metaphors for Iran, but the “bootleg” is not one of them. That stuff is for real. Indeed, in a country she likens to America under prohibition, a dapper gent like her uncle has only one use for his bathtub. She certainly appreciated it during the return trip to Iran that inspired her one-person show Bootleg Islam, which is currently running at the Brick Theater as part of the Iranian Theater Festival.

Farsad has seen a fair amount of the world. Her cousin has pretty much seen her neighborhood. When her halfway-kinda arranged wedding brings Farsad back to Tehran, she cannot help comparing her life to her betrothed cousin. She is also a bit embarrassed by her makeshift chador. Fortunately, she has another cousin, let’s call him “elegant,” who can help her out. Surely, her uncle’s special reserves were a life saver as well.

Loving the people, but hating their regime, Farsad is not shy about tweaking the Revolutionary government. Clearly, finding herself face-to-face with a fundamentalist extremist in the late Ayatollah Khomeini’s mosque was also quite instructive in a very scary way. Still, she never makes cracks at the expense of her cousin’s more traditional faith and lifestyle.

In fact, Farsad has a good ear for material, finding a number of laughs in a country that hardly encourages that sort of thing. However, the piece might work better in spots if she slowed down a bit for a more laconic deadpan approach, rather than her consistently energetic rat-a-tat-tat delivery. Of course, considering the festival’s packed schedule, the organizers are probably encouraging her to keep it as snappy as possible.

Even though her family was not directly involved in the 2009 demonstrations (a fact that did not prevent the government from temporarily imprisoning some of them) the “Green” almost-Revolution plays an important role in Farsad’s work. Throughout the performance she offers a number of spot-on analogies and brings it all full circle in a way that is surprisingly touching. It is unquestionably a show for adults though, but the bounteous penis jokes are a timely reminder that freedom is absolutely worth fighting for. One of the funnier and more endearing calls for regime change (and quite welcome as a result), Bootleg runs again this Friday (3/25) as the Iranian Theater Festival continues at the Brick, conveniently located for City residents near the Lorimar L station.

Frigid ’11: Joe, the Perfect Man

Joe Mal does not seem to know actors are supposed to call Macbeth the “Scottish Play.” It hardly matters though. There is no possible way he will pass his audition, but it will not be for a lack of trying in Rachelle Elie’s one . . . man show Joe: the Perfect Man, one of thirty independent productions, each no longer than an hour, currently running as part of the 2011 Frigid Festival.

Somewhat akin to Chris Farley’s Matt “Down by the River” Foley, Mal desperately seeks redemption by landing a part in Shakespeare’s cursed play. He will do anything, including pulling up members of the audience to run scenes with him. Frankly, Perfect probably works better when Elie has a larger talent pool to recruit from than the performance I saw. Still, Mal/Elie is clearly game to “audition” for anyone, anywhere, at any time.

Indeed, Elie is a fearless performer. However, there is something unsettling about the way the production blurs the distinction between comedy and tragedy. Ultimately, it is hard to judge how exactly we are supposed to react to Mal, with laughter or pity. Still, Mal fares better in his Macbeth mash-ups than the illustrious Peter O’Toole and Kelsey Grammer did in their notorious productions.

Given the Frigid mandated hour’s running time, every show in the festival moves along at a good clip. Definitely worth checking out (especially Matthew Wells’ break-neck Scarlet Woman), the festival runs through Sunday (3/6) at the Kraine Theater, the Red Room, and Under St. Mark’s. Mal auditions at the Kraine again tonight (3/4) and Sunday afternoon.

Frigid ’11: My Pal, Izzy

Though his roots were humble, young Russian-Jewish immigrant Israel Baline would eventually represent the American experience through music better than nearly any other songwriter, present, past, or future. Of course, the man now remembered as Irving Berlin for his enduring classics like “God Bless America,” “Blue Skies,” and “White Christmas” had to start somewhere. In the persona of Rebecca Rosenstein, a not-quite star of Vaudeville and supposed neighborhood acquaintance of the prodigious popular composer, Melanie Gall fashions a cabaret-style memory play out of Berlin’s rarely performed early Tin Pan Alley songbook in My Pal, Izzy: the Early Life and Music of Irving Berlin, which is currently running as part of the 2011 Frigid Festival, featuring thirty independents productions, each no longer than an hour.

Of course, there is a reason why Berlin’s pre-“Alexander’s Ragtime Band” songs are so rarely performed. Primarily, it is a function of changing tastes. Berlin started out trying to give the people what they wanted, succeeding more than most. However, even Gall in the guise of Rosenstein apologizes to an extent for his first published work of juvenilia, “Marie from Sunny Italy.” Still, you have certainly heard worse.

True to the era, many of Gall’s selections are more or less novelty songs, but that does not mean they are not interesting as musical ornaments of an era gone by. Gall seems to understand this, performing them straight, but adding considerable dramatic flair where she can. She channels her inner Mae West for “If You Don’t Want These Peaches” (you know about “peaches,” right?) and enjoys the political incorrectness (circa 1909) of “My Wife’s Gone to the Country.”

Though Gall’s renditions are often somewhat operatic (not surprisingly, given her background), it is frankly in keeping with the expectations of early 1900’s music hall audiences. In fact, she finds real depth in “When I Lost You” and delivers quite a rousing closer in “That Dying Rag,” suggesting at least two of Berlin’s earliest might potentially deserve a revival apart from the context of a tribute show like Izzy. She is ably accompanied by John Murphy, who is unfortunately stuck with a keyboard (it obviously clashes with the 1916 vibe, but the Kraine is a small space, so there’s probably no way around it).

Izzy is a well-conceived exploration of the Great American Songbook, staking out some unclaimed musical territory that works far better than one might expect. Indeed, it would be fascinating to hear her recast some of these tunes with contemporary arrangements sometime in the future. Recommended for lovers and students of American song, Izzy runs again this coming Wednesday (3/2), Thursday (3/3), and Saturday (3/5) at the Kraine Theater in New York’s East Village, not too far from Berlin’s boyhood Lower Eastside neighborhood.

(Photo: Karen Young)

On-Stage: Princes of Darkness

It makes sense Lucifer would have a spot in his heart for those famously dressed in black. He can also appreciate the wreckage Hamlet and Dracula left in their wakes. As for Oedipus, even if his wardrobe was not black, he certainly took a long, deep look into the heart of darkness. Your master of ceremonies, the Trickster himself channels all three literary denizens of the dark side in Princes of Darkness, the latest genre stage production directed by Rachel Klein, now running at the Theater for the New City as part of the Dream Up Festival.

It is an age old complaint: the world is in abject chaos and God let it all fall to seed. Ever the Devil, Lucifer suggests those mortals in the audience could do a better job running the universe. Vanity has always been one of the more effective deadly sins. To make his point, he introduces three men born to rule, but whose lives produced suffering rather than nobility. Frankly, he is mostly contemptuous of Hamlet and Oedipus. Indeed, it is hard to argue with the way things worked out for them. Still, Dracula seems to get a pass. After all, vampires are all the rage these days.

Clearly comfortable with evil personas, Bill Connington has already made a name for himself in the New York theater world with Zombie, a one person show based on Joyce Carol Oates Jeffrey Dahmer-inspired novella. As Lucifer and his three witnesses, Connington is a disturbing presence, weirdly ingratiating but viscerally menacing. Indeed, Klein’s “choreography” has an appropriately serpentine quality as he creeps, slithers, and shambles across the stage.

Connington’s text posits some intriguing connections between the four brooding figures from literature (of course counting Lucifer from his appearance in Milton). Yet somehow though, the parallels break down with Stoker’s Dracula. Perhaps, that is because he never had a comparable epic fall from grace.

Frankly, the creepiest aspect of Darkness might be Sean Gill’s unsettling audio effects and Connington's reverberating voice-over narration. Even though the audience safely in the New City, the Don-Pardo-from-Hell effect could be mistaken for some weird Brooklyn warehouse happening. The production’s big sound might even have become taxing, if it were not a manageable estimated fifty-five minutes.

Darkness is the sort of intimate but ironic genre theater Klein has a real touch for. Though it is a work heavy on text and narration, she keeps it chugging along briskly. In fact, it is a surprisingly intense theatrical experience, despite its brevity. Now open, it runs at the New City through Saturday (8/14).

(Photo: Beau Allulli)

On-Stage: St. Nicholas

One could say that the blood-sucking parasite of Conor McPherson’s vampire play is actually a theater critic, but that would be too easy. Drama criticism, at least as practiced in Dublin, certainly gets a thorough skewering. In fact, the unnamed narrator’s lack of critical integrity is the one thing we can be sure of amidst the macabre blarney of McPherson’s one-man vampire play St. Nicholas, recently revived at the WorkShop Theater by the Theatre of the Expendable.

Through an extended monologue, Ireland’s hardest drinking drama critic explains to the audience how through an unfortunate series of events he became the indentured familiar of a den of vampires. It all started with a mediocre production of Salome. In a rare act of critical fairness, he gave it the so-so review it deserved. However, that was not what he told the cast and crew at the after party. Ordinarily, he would not worry about their dashed spirits when they discovered the true tenor of his review, but the middle-aged curmudgeon developed a fast fixation on a beautiful young actress in the production.

In a monumentally bad decision, our increasingly obsessed narrator followed the production to London after their Dublin run closes early (thanks in no small part to his own write-up). Much alcohol is consumed during a confrontation that leaves the skunk-drunk narrator vulnerable to the mental domination of an alpha male vampire. That is, if we chose to believe him. While his story is fantastic, in all fairness, he is hardly self-surviving in its telling, casting himself in a consistently unflattering light.

Even as a cautionary tale told in retrospect, St. Nicholas relies more on suggestion than accounts of actual blood. Yet, McPherson’s vampires are still described in highly sexualized terms, not unlike those currently dominating pre-teen novels and cinema multiplexes. It is also quite amusing at times, particularly during its scathing depiction of the state of theater criticism in Dublin.

Obviously, as a dramatic monologue, St. Nicholas largely depends on the ability of its lead to serve as a forceful raconteur. Fortunately, Darrell James brings the cynical critic (surely this is not a redundancy) to vivid life, showing a strong affinity for the cadences (both the comedic and the eerie) of McPherson’s language. A play well served by an intimate space like the WorkShop, director Jesse Edward Rosbrow trusts the simple elements of the play—just the strange narrator, a chair, and the audience. Yet, with the help of the subtly evocative lighting (designed by Ryan Metzler), James completely draws the audience into to this tale of worldly humiliation and supernatural mystery.

Coming relatively hard on the heels of the release of McPherson’s justly acclaimed supernatural film The Eclipse, the timing should be right for revivals of his work and St. Nicholas seems like an economical choice. Indeed, Expendable’s production is quite entertaining and should well satisfy theater patrons who enjoy highly literate supernatural fare. Now officially open, it runs at the WorkShop through July 3rd.

(Photo: Dorian Nisinson)

Fringe ’09: A Time to Dance

It seems Elizabeth “Lisl” Polk was frequently overshadowed by her sister, Lilia Skala, the glamorous actress best remembered for her Academy-nominated supporting performance in Lilies of the Field. Yet, Polk’s influence was perhaps even more profound as a pioneer in the field of dance therapy for special need children. Having previously dramatized her grandmother’s life in the one-person show LiLia!, Libby Skala now shines the solo spotlight on Polk in A Time to Dance, now playing during the 2009 Fringe Festival NYC.

As Skala tells her great aunt’s story, a portrait emerges of a woman of destiny. Born premature, Polk was not expected to live, yet thrived under the care of a loving nanny. Representing another mouth to feed, she forced her father to seek out new business opportunities. That lead to a very lucrative arrangement with the designers of the new-fangled garment snap fastener (or “schnap fastener”), which led to an association with an American factory that very likely saved the lives of Polk and her family during World War II.

In America thanks to the sponsorship of her father’s manufacturing contacts, Polk went through a period of personal and professional uncertainty adjusting to her new life. However, she would find her true calling in dance. A born teacher and a modernist through-and-through, Polk started modestly, simply teaching neighborhood children in her basement. Chancing by a school for the deaf, Polk impulsively offered her services to the principal, beginning a long career teaching dance to physically and developmentally disabled children. An inspiration to students and colleagues alike, she finally retired at the vigorous age of ninety.

Dramatically well structured, Skala ends the show with a moving episode that takes Polk’s story full circle back to Europe. Although Skala lays on the accent a bit thick at times, she convincingly conveys the indomitable spirit of the trailblazing dance therapist. Dance fans should note though, while there is choreography integrated into the show, Time is more about celebrating Polk’s life and love of dance than recreating her performances.

While part of the Fringe Festival, Polk’s story has the potential to appeal to a wide commercial audience as an inspiring story of the immigrant experience. A model of early feminism, Polk pursued her dancing despite family disapproval. In doing so, she touched the lives of thousands of children through her compassion and respect. An accessible show based on a rich life, Time runs through August 24th at the Lafayette Street Theatre as part of Fringe.

(Libby Skala photo by Damon Calderwood)

Planet Connections: Child of Hungry Times

Though not widely translated in the West, Ludmila Petrushevskaya is one of Russia’s most respected contemporary authors. Not coincidently, she was also one of the most censored writers of the Soviet era. She gave voice to Russian working women, specifically mothers, struggling under an oppressive system. Five such characters from Petrushevskaya’s literary oeuvre tell their stories in Bridget Bailey’s solo show Child of Hungry Times, currently running as part of the Planet Connections Theatre Festivity.

Bailey brings to life all five desperate mothers, as well as a narrator, whose forced zeal for the great Soviet experiment slowly dissolves over the course of the show. Her transitions are quite clever, often segueing from one character to another amid their vodka fueled laughter. She tells a number of Yakov Smirnov style Communist jokes, deliberately butchering the punchlines for comedic effect. However, the experiences of the five women which form the heart of the show are mostly serious, even tragic, in tone.

Hunger is indeed a recurring motif in their stories, as is the need to sacrifice for the sake of their children. In perhaps the most heartrending storyline, one woman in the early stages of cancer makes an unimaginable choice to secure her son’s future. Of course, her diagnosis is assumed to be a death sentence, given the dim view of Soviet medicine presented throughout Child.

Child is cleverly staged, with potatoes placed on every seat, and a set complete with stockpiles of toilet paper effectively evoking the cramped quarters of Soviet era flats. Bailey nicely differentiates each of Petrushevskaya’s women, giving their testimony an emotional directness that is difficult to shake off. While the evolution of the narrator from bubbling babushka to tortured (literally) truth-teller feels a bit stagey, it certainly reflects the realities that produced Child’s source material.

Oddly, Child’s program carries a churlish note from the director which might alienate the target audience for a show based on Petrushevskaya’s writings. Despite his protestations to the contrary, Child is far timelier now, as Putin continues to consolidate power in a neo-Soviet Russia and Iran cracks down on spontaneous protests in the wake of apparent election fraud, than when it was first produced during George W. Bush’s administration.

Sometimes funny, often tragic, Child presents an intimate look at the lives of ordinary women in times of extreme scarcity. Bailey deserves credit for her compelling adaptation of Petrushevskaya’s work, which ought to be more readily available in translation. It will be staged again today (6/21) and Saturday (6/27) as part of Planet Connections, with its proceeds donated to Broadway Cares/Equity Fights AIDS.

soloNOVA: Piccola Cosi

Italians have always been quite hospitable to American expat jazz musicians, perhaps most notably with Chet Baker in the 1960’s (at least before jailing him on drug charges). The fragile romanticism of “My Funny Valentine,” a standard closely associated with Baker, would indeed be a fitting trial-by-fire for an American neophyte jazz vocalist. Aja Nisenson relates that fateful debut live performance, as well as the men and music she encountered in the Bologna jazz scene, with words and music in Piccola Cosi, which opened last night at the DR-2 Theatre as part of the soloNOVA Arts Festival of solo shows.

Unlike other soloNOVA selections, Nisenson has back-up on-stage, in the form of her able jazz trio, led by director Brian Dilg on keyboards, with Joe Nagle on drums and Pete O’Connell on bass. Of course, the only talking they do is through their instruments, which is appropriate since music plays such an important role in Nisenson’s story.

As she presents herself, Nisenson arrived in Italy a shy, inexperienced college student, who had performed opera and musical theater, but never jazz—at least not in front of a live audience. Her first time tackling a jazz standard is a bit of an adventure, as one might expect, but fortunately the piano-player leading the band is indulgent. After a false start, Nisenson demonstrates why she set out on her jazz excursion. It turns out she really has quite a voice, and even shows some scat chops she did not know she had, when cajoled into it by the encouraging band leader.

As Nisenson explains, Italy was a liberating environment for her. She claims she would not have had the nerve to sit-in with an American group, but in Italy everyone seems more inviting, particularly the men. Much of the show involves Nisenson’s attempts to deflect the advances of several prospective Italian lovers, with varying degrees of success. Again, the attractive Nisenson explains she always perceived herself as a geeky sneaker-wearing kid, but in Bologna, she had more romantic attention than she really wanted.

While the roster of would-be suitors sort of blend together for the audience, Nisenson infuses Piccola with a hip jazz sensibility that suggests she really does know of what she speaks. She cleverly integrates classic standards like “Take the A Train,” “Just Friends,” and “I’m Through with Love” into the show to help advance her story. As a crowd pleasing bonus, she even ends with a swinging “Mambo Italiano.”

Nisenson has a charismatic stage presence and legitimate vocal talent. Each standard she performed on opening night (even those intended for comic effect) earned a hearty round of applause. Combining jazz, musical theater, and solo performance, Piccola is an entertaining night of hybrid-theater. It runs at the DR-2 through May 30th, concluding the 6th annual soloNOVA fest.

soloNOVA: Face

For years the Japanese government denied responsibility for holding an estimated 200,000 women captive as sex slaves for their military during World War II. Suffering from shame as well as physical and mental trauma, it would take years for the surviving “comfort women” (also referred to as “wianbu”) to speak out. One such survivor finds her voice to bear witness in Haerry Kim’s Face, part of the terraNOVA Collective’s soloNOVA festival of solo performances running at the DR 2 Theatre throughout the month of May.

Based on published first-person testimonies, writer-performer Kim structures Face as a memory play, told years after the fact by a survivor now in her eighties, but still haunted by the wartime atrocities she endured. As a young girl, life was a struggle in occupied Korea. After the death of her father, she drops out of school to help her mother eke out a subsistence living in the fields. Yet, she still yearns for a better life, which makes her susceptible to a cruel Japanese bait-and-switch. She signs-on to work in a Japanese factory by day, lured by the promise of school at night. What follows is a harrowing story of rape, torture, disease, and mental anguish in the euphemistically named “comfort stations.”

Kim is truly heartrending in Face, conveying the shattering death of a young girl’s innocence and the hard-earned resolve of woman in her twilight years. Kim transforms herself into her character at vastly different ages, without the aid of make-up, simply through her uncannily expressive countenance. By their nature, solo performance requires the considerable courage to take the stage alone, without back-up. However, Kim seems particularly exposed on-stage, bringing to life her character’s unspeakable sufferings.

Even though Kim does all the talking (save for her best friend Sunja briefly heard in recorded voice-overs), Face never feels stagey. Jakyung Seo’s dramatic lighting effectively emphasizes the stark, minimal nature of the well-mounted production. A compellingly written work, Face should also open some eyes in the audience, not only to the tragic story of the “comfort women,” but also the severe cultural policies of the Imperial occupation, which required Koreans to adopt Japanese names and prohibited their native language.

Face is a viscerally intense theater experience, featuring an exceptional performance by its writer. It might be sad and infuriating, but Kim also finds a measure of inspiration in her character’s resilience. Highly recommended even to those not ordinarily enamored with one-person shows, Face transcends its format. It runs through May 23rd as part of soloNOVA.

La Guardia in the Eye of the Beholder

How did Mayor Bloomberg celebrate his inevitable victory overturning the term-limit measure New Yorkers twice approved at the ballot box? Instead of going to Disneyland, he went to Tony Lo Bianco’s one-man show La Guardia. The whole three-termer thing must have appealed to him. For the record, LaGuardia demurred on a fourth term, cautioning mayors tend to get “bossy.” One can see what he meant. You can also see Mayor La Guardia, as personified by Lo Bianco, at the Dicapo Opera Theatre, quite Off-Broadway on Manhattan’s fashionable Upper Eastside.

Distilled from Lo Bianco’s previous one-man productions down to a manageable hour and a half, performed without intermission, La Guardia is a respectful treatment of the progressive Republican icon. The year is ostensibly 1945 and La Guardia is packing up his office on his last day as Mayor, a process nicely suited to prompting reminiscences. Essentially, we hear the highlights of La Guardia’s public career, primarily his terms in Congress, service in WWI, and of course his years in Gracie Manor.

Lo Bianco did his research, acknowledging La Guardia’s little known Jewish heritage. As revealed in Hava Volterra’s documentary Tree of Life, he was distantly related to her Jewish Italian Volterra family-line that included Luigi Luzzatti, the first Jewish Prime Minister ever elected in Europe, and the mystical kabbalist Ramhal (none of which is in the play). Explaining the social pecking-order of turn of the century New York, Lo Bianco’s La Guardia tells the audience as both an Italian and a Jew, he started his career as a third-class citizen. Actually, he could have added Republican, making him a fourth-class New Yorker. In truth, La Guardia shows a better than average understanding of New York’s strange political ins-and-outs. Particularly, on-target was a crack about the “Republican deadbeat district leaders and club loafers,” he had to endure during his early campaigns.

To his credit, Lo Bianco unequivocally portrays Tammany Hall as the corrupt Democrat machine it was. However, he chooses to emphasize La Guardia, the provider of social services and supporter of FDR, rather than La Guardia, the pro-war hawk and crusader against Democrat corruption. Yet, when he covered the WWII years, La Guardia’s words had a ringing resonance for today, at one point warning listeners of his radio broadcast, they can indeed criticize their government in a time of war, but should remember that our enemies are listening as well.

Lo Bianco clearly loves the Little Flower like a brother, but that does not always make for the best theater. We never hear La Guardia holding a grudge or speaking a word in anger against anyone, except the Corruptocrats of Tammany. One-person shows are inherently limited, but La Guardia feels particularly stagy at times. However, Lo Bianco is quite effective channeling La Guardia, getting a standing ovation from an audience that included many who probably remember the great Mayor personally. La Guardia is safe theater and a reasonably diverting history lesson. It runs at the Dicapo through Saturday the 22nd.

Primo: Tonight or Next Week

Fatigue for the recent proliferation of one-person shows would be understandable, but exception should be made for Great Performances’ broadcast of Sir Anthony Sher’s Primo, debuting tonight on New York’s WNET 13 and next Thursday, the 24th, for most of the rest of the country. Masterfully adapting and performing Primo Levi’s memoir, Survival in Auschwitz (If This Is a Man), Sher uses the format of solo performance to capture the fundamental contradiction of life in the death camps—despite cramped spaces, constant new arrivals, and the ever-present terror of SS guards, prisoners like Levi were in fact, alone in a very existential way.

Levi was captured with a group of Italian anti-fascist partisans in 1943. He assumed it would be better to identify himself as an Italian of Jewish descent, rather than as a member of the political resistance. As a result he was deported to Auschwitz in early 1944, spending eleven months in Hell before the camp’s eventual liberation.

Levi was a chemist, and numbers would be grimly significant in his story. He would be one of twenty two Jewish Italians out of 650 in his transport to survive the death camp. His very identity would be reduced to a mere digit: 174517. Sher’s Levi explains: “While the habits of freedom still made me look for the time on my wristwatch, my new name appeared instead: one hundred and seventy-four thousand, five hundred and seventeen.”

Primo is particularly effective when explaining the every-day horrors of life in Auschwitz. In a particularly gripping sequence, Sher’s Levi explains:

“Death begins with your shoes—your wooden soled shoes. At first they’re like instruments of torture. After a few hours marching you already have painful sores. These quickly become infected and then you are forced to walk with a kind of shuffle as if dragging a convict’s chain . . . In the lager [camp], the average life expectancy of a high number is about eight weeks. If you last longer, it is because you‘ve mastered two things. One, you’ve learned to obey orders in a language that you don’t understand. Two, you have a pair of shoes that fit.”

Levi attributes his survival against the odds to several factors. Most notably is his cooperative friendship with another prisoner, Alberto. In powerful scene, Sher’s Levi decries that prisoners are “ferociously alone,” but they “will conduct an experiment, a chemical experiment in a way. Is there not more strength in two?”

Also significantly contributing to his survival was an Italian civilian laborer, Lorenzo Perrone, who smuggled soup to Levi, and Alberto by extension. Levi the chemist is able to calculate precisely how the calories of Perrone’s soup are able to make up for the deficit of the camp’s inadequate rations. That chemistry training would ultimately lead to Levi’s assignment to a laboratory, likely saving him from the perilous conditions of winter labor.

Sher portrays Levi with restrained dignity. He is dressed in the shirt, tie, and sweater vest of a celebrated author and public intellectual, not in camp uniform—this is a memory play, not a docudrama. Primo is a deeply humanistic work that celebrates the spirit of people like Alberto and Perrone. Yet in a few devastating scenes, Sher’s Levi literally passes judgment on the causal inhumanity of his captors.

Finely nuanced, Sher’s performance is remarkable. With little more than a chair for a prop, he commands the stage and screen. He is aided by effective lighting and the haunting incidental cello music of Robin Thomson-Clarke. Recorded at London’s Hampstead Theatre the production enjoyed a critically acclaimed limited run on Broadway. It premieres on Channel Thirteen in the New York market tonight at 8:00 and on most PBS stations next Thursday (making the timing of this review difficult). It is a powerful production, strongly recommended.