He rants for all of us
Nov. 10, 2006. 06:24 AM
JOE FIORITO
jfiorito@thestar.ca
To be is to do.
Tony Nardi is an actor, a father, a husband. He works. He writes.
He thinks. On the subject of identity, he is who he is more
than anyone else I know.
We don't hang out together, but I have seen his work and we
have talked. We share some of the same references, and we have
some of the same preferences; these run deeper than last name
ends in a vowel.
A while back Tony was asked to audition for a part in an edgy
black comedy produced for television; the role, an Italian guy.
Stop right there.
Not a real Italian guy; an Italian guy in the fevered imagination
of a writer whose knowledge of Italians, and of character, and
of men in relation to women, was cartoonish.
The part would have required Tony to toss off a line that was
at once thoughtless, shocking and offensively one-dimensional;
more than that, absurd.
Nardi turned down the part as a matter of principle.
I like a guy who won't sell out; rare these days when everything
and everyone has a price. I also like a guy who demands nearness
to the truth; rare these days when all that matters seems to
be what's on the surface.
Don't get me or him wrong.
Nardi has been offered, and has taken, other spaghetti jobs
— that's my term, not his — and he has a tendency,
when he reads for these roles, to test the producers and the
writers by asking if he has the power to veto clichés.
In this instance, Nardi not only turned the part down, he wrote
a letter outlining the reasons why he was so angry and he sent
it off.
I said he is a thoughtful guy. He got no reply. His anger blossomed.
He kept on writing.
The questions that troubled him so deeply have to do, not just
with identity and cultural stereotyping, but also with the nature
of storytelling. He did what a good writer and a good actor
does.
He turned the letter into a one-man show.
Coincidentally, he had occasion to write a second letter, equally
blistering, on the subject of the theatre, and he turned that
letter into a companion piece of performance. The letters are
now running on consecutive nights in various locations around
town.
I have seen the first letter performed in a workshop setting:
nothing more than Nardi, and a dozen curious invitees, sitting
around a table.
I dislike hyperbole. There were gasps.
To see Nardi in action is a bit like witnessing spontaneous
combustion in a cave at night; at first, there is the scent
of sulphur; then, a vague crackling in the air; then a flash
of light, and the play of shadow on the walls; above all, there
is surprise.
You ought to go see what he has to say.
Here's why: Toronto is a city of considerable cultural complexity.
Drama is made of nothing less than the stuff of life. Men and
women are not cardboard cutouts. We owe it to each other to
tell the truth.
Based on the preceding, you might think Nardi has written an
Italianate rant.
Nope. Italy is a detail.
He rants for all of us.
Allow me this liberty: As time goes by in this town, the voices
of the Koreans, the Portuguese, and the Ethiopians will demand
to be heard on our stages and to be seen on our screens, large
and small; there will be writers who take liberties and shortcuts
with character.
But oh, spare us the corner grocer who is frustrated with his
lot in life, and spare us the broken-down construction worker
whose family thinks he is a dinosaur, and spare us the haunted
refugee who is noble and sad, scarred and confused. In other
words, look a little more deeply.
There is no other.
There is us.
Not much in life is certain. But when we take each other for
granted, when we stop asking questions, and when we presume
to know what we do not and cannot know, then we all lose.
Nardi uses dramatic acid to burn the rust off truth, and to
blister complacency until it turns into awareness. He takes
no prisoners. He may have made himself some new and powerful
enemies. He may never work again.
I salute him.
To see Two Letters is akin to looking at a painting and having
the figures come to life and tell you sternly and wittily what
it is that you don't quite see.
I realize this is not a review; not my department. I have also
been elliptical. But I don't want to give away the point, nor
do I wish to tell you who dunnit or how.
I do not often urge, but you owe it to yourself to go see Two
Letters.
