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Rating: The Teatro degli Arcimboldi has been sold out for days. Not a single seat is free for either the afternoon or evening performances. I am one of the lucky ones who managed to get two tickets for two adjacent seats, which is not a given, as several couples had to separate before our eyes, sitting next to strangers. Not that it's a problem, mind you.
At four o'clock, as punctual as a Swiss watch, our hero appears on stage, still without any mask. It's just him and a spotlight, guiding him from the darkness of the wings to the stage, which then lights up amidst the applause.
Antonio starts with a somewhat slow and groggy monologue, then his sidekick arrives, a red suitcase. And we start laughing our heads off. Again the spotlight swallows him, then the wings spit out a mobile armchair and its occupant: the "Minister of Fear." He talks to us hilariously about how fear belongs to us and is a part of us, then come delirious allusions, body movements, and punchlines. The outfit changes are incredibly quick, reminding us that Antonio Albanese is not Arturo Brachetti, but he could have come from his school. We are in the presence of "Alex Drastico", who has no time to say anything; his mere walk makes us jump in our seats. A little scratch on the "license plate" (as he calls his backside) because “the viper underwear also has fangs” and we can no longer breathe, we are breathless. The story involves us all, then he arms himself with shamelessly Sicilian-accented jokes, making us doubt that beneath the shirt with buttons about to burst, there is an actor from Lecco. It ends with a very deep moral about the mafia and silence. We dry our tears born of laughter, reflect and catch our breath. But there is no time. Engineer “Ivo Perego” arrives. From Sicily to Lombardy, remembering the protagonists of “La Fame e la sete”, who in that legendary feature film were twin brothers very distant from each other. Here Albanese is forced, much to his dismay, to take a break. He laughs; we laugh, and 'laugh' is an understatement for us. It may be that grotesque Milanese character consciously proposed in the heart of the Milanese city; it may be the skill of that genius actor, but every joke and wink makes us laugh like we rarely remember doing in our lives.
We are almost to the end, and my absolute favorite arrives. The one who filled the film “L’Uomo d’acqua dolce”, who is in everyone's heart, who speaks little but does so like no one else: “Epifanio Gilardi”. For him, it's mostly many blown kisses to the audience. A seagull, a ball thrown into the basket, a throw behind the back. Kisses on kisses, the lower lip prominent, and the thumb adjusting the glasses, pushing them to the top of the nose. Then the hand up: “How is it going?” Epifanio was born as a mime, as a mute character, and the monologue is shorter than expected, but it goes straight to the heart. Not before giving us a lightning bolt of nostalgia and making us laugh and smile. Because it may be strange, but that's how Epifanio is. Besides being tender, he has the power to remind us how fast time passes and the value words have.
Delirium with "Cetto La Qualunque", who arrives with his tricolor-laden stall. Before entering the character, Albanese tells us some anecdotes related to the history of the eccentric Calabrian entrepreneur aspiring to be elected, things not everyone knows. He engages us; it feels like a chat among friends. He says he never liked wearing that stupid wig but that he manages thanks to a friend who reminds him each time how much it makes him look like Gérard Depardieu. Cold comfort, isn't it? Ten minutes ad-libbing, then a turn of the key, and off we go. We laugh, aware that there's very little made up, as the good Cetto reminds us with the cry "Cchiù pilu pe' tutti!"
Antonio leaves the Depardieu-like wig, the stall, and the role of Cetto, then runs back onto the stage, thanks us, and effectively leaves us in doubt as to whether it's really all over. No one stands up; I see some coats move, but soon enough, our hero returns to the stage, wearing the unmistakable attire of the "Sommelier", with the indispensable tastevin and the cart loaded with wine. One last piece with an ending as hilarious as it is intoxicating.
A few jokes outside the last character, the genuine thanks, and it’s over. Lights in the hall and everyone on their feet, with slapping hands and smiling mouths showing all the teeth available.
“Personaggi” is an incredible one-man show, especially for its brilliant performer. Antonio Albanese is alone on stage, without technology or frills, guided only by a spotlight of white light illuminating him beyond the wings. His familiarity with the masks he wears and gives an identity to suggests they've always been sewn onto him, although this is not always a guarantee of quality for an artist.
The perfect comedic timing, the ability to relate to a friendly audience, and the cunning to combine acting and improvisation make Antonio Albanese a real stage animal. I have always thought, and this is a personal opinion, that Albanese is at his best wearing the clothes of his most successful characters. Without a mask and in front of the camera, he remains a highly gifted actor, but he gives the feeling of being somewhat incomplete. It's no coincidence that the theater is his birthplace, and this is not just my assessment.
Between one film and another, I can’t wait to see him again on that stage. With his unique great talent and his thousand facets.
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