I’ve seen actor and playwright Frank Ingrasciotta do his one-man show, Blood Type: Ragu, three times now over a period of what I think is about 10 years, and each time I see something that I didn’t remember from the previous performance, each time I’m amazed at how irreverent he can be while maintaining a love and loyalty to the idea of the Italian family. This latest performance is like the matured version of what I first saw all those years ago. And what you can see today is what the play was meant to be, and now you get to see it without having to have seen it go through all those earlier, sometimes awkward, stages.
The plot is simple--caught between mother and father, a young boy must grow into a man by leaving them all without losing himself. The journey takes place through portraits and scenes of family, friends and neighbors. The result is a “misto imbroglio” of personalities that have helped to shape the man on the stage, but when you watch that actor turn into neighbors, relatives, men and women alike, you forget that there’s one person behind all this. Warts and all, the family portraits will have
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