Writer-director Louis LaRusso II stresses that "Sweatshop" is a period piece and should be viewed in that context. Set in a Hoboken dressmaking factory circa 1958, "Sweatshop" tells the story of 10 female sewing machine operators in conflict over whether or not they should unionize. Mary, the central figure, based on LaRusso's own mom, is also contending with a philandering roustabout of a husband whom she adores. At the end of this work that conjures up a 1950s TV drama‹shades of Paddy Chayefsky‹Mary votes against unionizing. The reason: She is a spirited individual and does not want to be caged. "Sweatshop" is the improbable marriage of Clifford Odets and Ayn Rand, with touches of blue humor sprinkled throughout.
"My mom was a true individualist‹a very bright lady who stood up for herself," explains LaRusso. "She had an anti-union mentality in a day when unions were not always effective, especially in small businesses. She was not a joiner. In some ways she was ahead of her time. The big challenge was to remember these women, to bring them to life." LaRusso continues, "Here I am, this macho guy writing about women. I had many self-doubts. Can I capture the small things that passed among them?"
"Sweatshop," which bowed Off-Broadway at the Chernuchin Theatre, on Nov 11 is LaRusso's 26th play about blue collar Italian-American life in Hoboken. Most of his plays are interrelated and autobiographical in nature, recounting his family's journey throughout the 20th century. LaRusso is probably best known for "Lamppost Reunion," a piece about Frank Sinatra's early years, that garnered its author a Tony nomination in 1975. His other Broadway credits include "Wheelbarrow Closers" and "Knockout."
The leather jacket-clad 60ish Hoboken native chats with us on the "Sweatshop" stage‹yes, on the stage‹flanked by a dozen fully operational mid-century sewing machines. Like his fictional characters, he suggests a figure right out of a "Playhouse 90" 's script: a disappointed man, divorced twice and a self-acknowledged womanizer. Small smile. He is profoundly connected to his roots‹still lives in the Hoboken house his grandfather bought in 1898‹and a product of 1950s West Village beatnik life. In 1961, he published a book of poetry and to this day he's an admirer of beat writer Jack Kerouac. "When he was lucid he said great things. He was able to pull out the gears and let it roll. Maybe he was boozed and drugged. But recently I picked up his work "Subterranean.' And, yeah, he's still important in a literary sense. And I'd recommend "On the Road' to every kid at the crossroads who should know adventures are still possible."
LaRusso notes that O'Neill, Williams, and Miller shaped his esthetic. "My first responsibility is to entertain an audience, but I will also make you think and cry. I'm not interested in writing sitcoms that you give you a bunch of laughs and send you off happy. I like a richer form of art that provokes heart and soul."
A year and a half ago, LaRusso was diagnosed with terminal cancer and he has refused all traditional medicine. "I was supposed to live only four months, but through holistic treatments, I am healthy now, 95% cancer free. Yes, I really do believe almost all diseases can be cured that way." In all fairness, he does not look sick at all.
Yet, he is "very depressed," he admits. "I first wrote "Sweatshop' in 1983 as a tribute to my mother who had died in 1969. Shortly thereafter I moved to L.A. and outside of one production of the play that was difficult to watch‹the L.A. actresses played these women as caricatures‹I did not look at the play for 13 years. But when I was diagnosed with cancer, I wanted "Sweatshop' to be my last hurrah. We have worked on this play for over a year and the critics are simply not coming [as of press time several critics had surfaced, but their reviews had not yet appeared]. You can hate me, but, come and hate me. Don't disregard me."
Reveille to Revelation
The son of a dockworker who was instrumental in forming the International Longshoremens Association, LaRusso grew up "just wanting to get through it." At the age of 16, LaRusso left school‹he too was a longshoreman‹and helped support the family. A stint in the army followed, where a chance encounter changed his life.
"My bunk mate was Neil Hamilton, descended from Alexander Hamilton, and rich. He drove up to the barracks in a spider Porsche‹very James Dean. He was an actor and had a pile of Samuel French plays with him," LaRusso recalls. "I was curious and started reading. The first was "The Iceman Cometh' and it just floored me. I couldn't believe anyone could get characters to talk like that. The poetry!
"The next was "The Glass Menagerie' and then "Death of a Salesman.' " LaRusso's voice suggests awe even in retrospect. "I was asking Neil a million questions. He told me about the American Academy of Dramatic Arts where he studied and said I should check it out. "Look, The G.I. bill will pay for it.' "
In short order, LaRusso was enrolled in the famed theatre institution. "I figure, I'm a nice looking guy. Why not?" His first professional gig‹a featured role in "A Hat Full of Rain" in summer stock‹was his last. "I came out and died. I never felt so naked. I hated it and realized instantly that this was not for me!"
In writing he scored on Broadway, Off-Broadway, and then Los Angeles. "It's a little too easy to bad-mouth Hollywood," he remarks. "It's true that big business and high-profile ideas take precedence over poetic writing. But the fact is I had a great time, at least for a while. I had a suite of offices at Universal, a Mercedes convertible, and a beautiful home. As a poor lower-class kid I was caught up in all of that. And for a womanizer, Hollywood is the best place to be." He pauses to reassure us, "It's not that the women are more beautiful on the coast than here. But they're more accessible. Here you have to earn them."
During his 13-year tenure on the coast, LaRusso was commissioned to write two dozen screenplays, although only three were ever produced. The scenario is typical, he says. "You pitch an idea to a studio executive who in turn calls your agent. You have a couple of meetings, a deal, and you're sent off to write a first draft. By the time you've finished that first draft, the guy who hired you is gone. And you're now dealing with a new executive who'll never work with the previous producer's writer.
"So you do a turnaround, get another assignment, and become hot because you're making deals at ridiculously large sums of money. It's all bullshit: Who's hot, who's not. And everyone is jiving everyone else. I became discouraged. In fact, the three produced scripts I wrote were the worst writing I'd ever done. I had lost my soul, emotionally and artistically."
Still, the experience had its educational value. "I'm now a very good editor and re-writer. And that was not my strong suit before I started writing screenplays." His Hollywood years have also informed his skills as a director, who helms his own work. "I have no commitment to the words of my play. Working in movies made me sensitive to excess."
LaRusso's next project is a remounting of "The Black Marble Shoeshine Stand," an earlier play that considered the life of his grandfather, a professor in Italy who wound up as a shoeshine man in turn-of-the-century Hoboken. At the moment however, his thoughts are with "Sweatshop" and his conviction that there are audiences for this work‹in particular those who lived through the era‹who will walk away with "a sense of humanity about people who cared for each other."