Funny, but Little to ‘Freak’ Out About

When “Freak” tried out around the country last year, the subtitle of John Leguizamo’s latest set of comedy sketches was “His Most Dangerous Work Yet.” Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t. By the time the manic solo opened Thursday night at the Cort Theatre, alas, the most dangerous part of the modestly engaging act was someone’s decision to put it in a Broadway theater and charge Broadway prices.

Maybe we’re not getting something here. Clearly, the gifted chameleon with the Jim Carrey nervous system connects with audiences and has a passionate following. The moment he burst onto the off-Broadway scene with his 1991 “Mambo Mouth,” Leguizamo was rightly identified as the first Latino performance artist / stand-up monologuist with crossover star potential. Then came an even brighter solo, “Spic-O-Rama,” not to mention worthwhile debates about the perils of his deft multiethnic stereotyping, lots of awards, a short-lived TV series (“House of Buggin”), a generally reviled teen-comedy movie (“The Pest”) and a lovely turn as a drag queen in the annoying “To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar.”

Thus, when it was announced that Leguizamo was headed for Broadway, we assumed that his Hollywood and far-flung stage experiences would push his sharp, curious mind in even more mature, edgy, complicated directions. We also thought he would offer something theatergoers couldn’t have gotten downtown five years ago for a nickel.

Instead, “Freak”--directed by his collaborator, David Bar Katz--is mostly hackneyed and harmless, jokey and juvenile. It is surprisingly underproduced considering the venue, only a bare stage with a small screen for the occasional slide show. Leguizamo wears a New York T-shirt and black pants. We are meant to trust that the material and his dynamic force of personality will take over the space. Sometimes they do. Often they do not.

Presented in two energetic but hardly electric acts, “Freak” is full of scenes from his difficult, now-familiar New York childhood--enough already from a 33-year-old with family portrayals he has done at least as well before. There are tame coming-of-age insights about, wow, getting caught masturbating in the bathroom and getting deflowered by a fat German at a Kentucky Fried Chicken store. When in doubt, he flings himself into some antic hip-hop dance. We are meant to snicker with him about our ridiculous cultural reference points. We do, but it’s all too easy.

Although the title is never explained, it must be a reference to the opening of “Spic-O-Rama,” in which the narrator, 9-year-old Miguel, describes his family as “monsters, freaks and weirdos.” But the title also suggests a tough-minded look at outsiders, a willingness to call an unpleasant word by its name. As he said in a recent interview, his work is “calculated to jolt as many people as I can.”

Leguizamo has an eye and an ear for a big jolt and the lithe body to make the reflection complete. He is a marvelous mimic. He can turn on a breath from his flirtatious mother to his brutal father, suggesting just the right tension in the proud tilt of his neck. His parents--he tells us after a sweet overview of his conception, birth and early years--came from Colombia to New York, where “their English was so bad they couldn’t understand each other.”

When his father’s dreams of being the “tenement king” collapse, the family moves into less and less welcoming neighborhoods. This may have been hard on the child, but it makes for inspired Italian, Irish and Jewish parodies. His only good relative is a gay deaf uncle. The uncle brought the boy to theater, without which the world would never have had Leguizamo’s audition for Lee Strasberg: Imagine Stanley Kowalski’s “Stella” speech as Jerry Lewis would have done it.

There are other moments to treasure, including Leguizamo’s attempt to pass as a Valley boy at college, only to be derided by an ancient Aztec god. But he seems unable to decide whether to be a Latino Richard Pryor or just Jimmie Walker. He turns utterly shameless at the end, dedicating the show to the father he has just portrayed for two hours as an unredeemable sadist (“This one’s for you, Dad”). He vows to be “master of my own destiny . . . to turn nothing into something.” When he yearns for acting jobs that go beyond Latin “pushers, pimps and thugs,” we cannot help but agree. Equally dangerous, however, is emotional blackmail.

* Cort Theatre, 138 W. 48th St., (212) 239-6200.