By Leonard Jacobs

Chazz Palminteri’s back is to the audience as the lights rise on A Bronx Tale, the Broadway revival of his 1989 Off-Broadway hit. He’s beside two lampposts representing 187th Street and Belmont Avenue. Slowly, smoothly, he spins to face us, and barely a minute later he’s evoking the Bronx of his youth; you hear in the distance the doo-wop harmonies reverberating off brick walls and concrete slabs. A handsome replica of the facade of the building Palminteri grew up in stands at center, onto which set designer James Noone has sprinkled tiny bits of soot. At left is Chez Joey, the bar where so much action occurs.

A Bronx Tale—which Palminteri based on his experiences as a kid and wrote as a way to help raise his flagging acting career—benefits immeasurably from the actor’s easy and ingratiating manner. To lower the fourth wall, he discloses his birth name—Cologio Lorenzo Romano Alfredo Palminteri—and the equally long names of his father and mother. “Now, ask yourself one question: Are all these names necessary?” he asks, and we chuckle. This is indeed a Bronx tale, a family tale. What makes it universal is its spirit: It may be a tale between Palminteri and an audience of 800, but it always feels one on one.

Indigenous New Yorkers like me (I’m the son of two of them) will relate most fully to Palminteri’s memories of growing up fast and wild as New York began descending into social and physical chaos. And that’s where the heart of the tale is found. Sitting on his stoop at age nine, Palminteri witnesses a murder and then, acting seemingly out of instinct, he pretends to be incapable of fingering the killer in a line-up. This move places Palminteri into the paternal, protective orbit of Sonny, the mobster who committed the crime. Over time, Palminteri doesn’t become Sonny’s protégé so much as his substitute child; their bond is such that Palminteri at one point describes his father, a bus driver loved by everybody in the tight-knit Italian community, warning Sonny that Cologio—he was called C back then—must be kept out of the exploits of the Mafiosi. Time and experience would eventually teach Palminteri why this should be so.

Even as A Bronx Tale takes its inevitable twists and turns—becoming a story of race relations, of coming of age in turbulent 1960s, of a young man eager to be sprung from his roots—Palminteri infuses it all with halcyon sweetness. And yet, much to the credit of director Jerry Zaks, he never overdoes it. The 55-year-old actor ultimately plays over a dozen characters—people with names like Eddie Mush, Frankie Coffee Cake, Jimmy Ten-to-Two, Harry A-Hee-Arrrrhh and Jojo the Whale. That we so easily conjure up mental images of these colorful and horrifying individuals is the real testament to Palminteri’s storytelling talents.

The tale’s climax occurs as Palminteri recalls his attraction to an African-American girl and the events of the night of his first date with her. Credulity is stretched a little, sure, and I do wonder whether all of these things could have really happened—or maybe Palminteri’s well-told tale was just a little tall. I don’t want to know, though. The trip back to yesteryear was far too exciting to worry about it.

Through Feb. 10. Walter Kerr Theatre, 219 W. 48th St. (betw. Broadway & 8th Ave.), 212-239-6200; $26.50-$96.50.