There's this coat, you see—a voluminous woolen gentleman's overcoat of mid to late 19th-century Russian vintage with astrakhan cuffs and collar, now worn, tattered, and conspicuously malodorous — bequeathed to our narrator in his mid-50s, by his Uncle Philip. Matty (the character) makes frequent reference to the coat's — um, fragrance, but never describes this feature in detail, leading us to anticipate a later revelation concerning the secret of its singular redolence. We don't get one, but, as Philip himself would say, "is not the point, is not the point." That's not to say that this coat doesn't have a history. It once disguised a young Philip as a garment hanging in a closet, rescuing him from slaughter by Cossacks. After the brothers Philip and Mikhail fled to the United States, New York City, to the tourist district of Coney Island, the coat continued to protect its owner from the hardships associated with his trade as a street peddler of wares appealing to a wide range of customers — underwear for the women, razor blades for the men, candy for the children. His means of livelihood earned him the disapproval of his sibling, respectably employed as a jewelry repairman, but exerted a powerful influence on the latter's son, whose career in the theater echoes his ancestor's itinerant lifestyle. Selman (the playwright) chronicles over a hundred years in a bare 75 minutes through the device of writing his account as a solo show for three major voices (and a few auxiliary interruptions), relying on the skills of single actor to conjure the personalities of our inquisitive host, his gruff-spoken father and the iconic Uncle Philip, whose store of real-world wisdom and pitchman's spiel reflects the rich heritage of the immigrant experience in this nation of immigrants. Such a dramatic structure imposes a heavy responsibility on its performer (did I mention a rendition of "Katyusha" on the kazoo?) who must change his age, body stance and vocal delivery in at least two languages. Fortunately, director Elizabeth Margolius and Chicago favorite Gene Weygandt never fall into the trap of scoring easy laughs from a patter still heard today from wayside hawkers of bottled water or tube socks, but instead granting every moment its full share of ribaldry — or pathos — as appropriate. In the end, some details of Uncle Philip's life may be fated to forever remain a mystery, but Selman, like his mentor, understands the necessity of ensuring that strangers—whatever their tribe or lineage—leave entertained and enlightened.
