Rodney Rules.(Review)

In early May, Avery Fisher Hall, home of the New York Philharmonic, played host to another American cultural institution: Rodney Dangerfield. Said Rodney, midway through his act, as he sized up his surroundings, "I can take a classy place like this and turn it into a [not very pleasant place]."

Yes, he can. But he can also turn it into an exceptionally pleasant place, because Dangerfield is a gifted and endearing man. He is also the last of a line, pretty much; the last of a generation of comedians on whom several generations of Americans grew up. Traditional stand-up comedy is getting rarer. Our comedy today tends to be high-concept, slightly artsy, heavily ironical. Rodney Dangerfield still gets up on a stage and tells jokes-lots of 'em-and so leaves his audience warmly happy. When he goes, something priceless will go, too, and that is depressing.

Dangerfield is 80 this year. He was born in Long Island, with a typical comedian's name: Jacob Cohen. And then, also typically, he changed it to something snappy. As a young man, he did everything he could to break into show business, but came up short. He accepted the indignity of an office job, but never stopped trying. Eventually, in his 40s, he caught on. Rodney was a late-bloomer, and that added to his legend. He suffered, and overcame, serious depression, and people admired him for that, too. Rodney traveled the club circuit from coast to coast, and he appeared on every TV show imaginable, from Ed Sullivan (on which he was a smash) to Conan O'Brien (likewise). He has performed on the Tonight Show a cool 70 times, the record.

Along the way, he became a minor movie star, making-to name three of his biggest-Caddyshack (1980), Easy Money (1983), and Back to School (1986). It may surprise certain readers to know, but there is a cult of Caddyshack, populated in particular by those who have spent a good chunk of life around a golf course. Rodney's lines are stuck in our memories. It was no surprise that Gov. Jesse Ventura, when he met the Dalai Lama, wanted mainly to ask whether he had seen Caddyshack. (The Tibetan holy man is featured in the movie's signal monologue, though one uttered by Bill Murray, not Rodney.)

So, Dangerfield-outlasting everyone, outperforming everyone-became an institution. His trademark white shirt and red tie are on permanent display at another institution, the Smithsonian.

At Avery Fisher Hall, there was a typical Rodney crowd, which is to say, one that included every type: young and old, male and female, fancy and plain. The crowd was rowdy, hepped-up, not the usual symphonic audience, for sure. Dangerfield had as his warm-up act a youngish comedian named Harry Basil, who was loud, frenetic, and fine. He is the kind of entertainer who does Jerry Lewis singing Kenny Rogers's "Lady." As a warm-up comedian, he is in a ticklish position: He ought to be good, but not too good, because the star has to shine. When some boors in the audience called, prematurely, for Rodney, Basil responded: "You know how when you order a hamburger you get a pickle, even though you didn't ask for a pickle? I'm the pickle. Enjoy the pickle!"

In due course, it was Rodney time. Much about the evening seemed elegiac, including the fact that the prop man was elderly and gimpy. The boys in Rodney's backup band were touchingly dated, too. As for the octogenarian Rodney, he looks essentially as he always has. It is hard to imagine a more distinctive-looking guy: those bulging, leering, chortling eyes; the ...