Louie Anderson retains his sharp family comedy

MICHAEL PASKEVICH

MORE COLUMNS

      Since the recent closure of Bally's famed Celebrity Room cut several headliners loose to work elsewhere, popular Louie Anderson has become something of a comedic nomad.
      He's worked showrooms at the Riviera and The Orleans and plays today and Saturday at 8 p.m. in the Lance Burton Theatre at the Monte Carlo, 3770 Las Vegas Blvd. South, while the room's magical namesake is on hiatus. Tickets are $33 and $35.50.
      And while it would seem wise for one resort to cut him a long-term deal based on his consistently hefty crowd counts, locale has no real impact on Anderson's Cosby-like ability to turn a 1,000-plus seat showroom into a living room.
      But unlike the avuncular Cosby, who celebrates family values by sharing his collection of cute moments and uplifting tales, Anderson's straightforward recollections of his own are delivered without kid gloves. Seems much of his youth was a nightmare, and his wistful yet amusing stories can be taken as a guide for parents who'd rather not repeat the mistakes their own parents made.
      The rotund comic, who appears to have dropped some poundage, remains a sad-eyed man who simply shuffles onstage and opens his heart to all who will listen. And even if some of Anderson's routines revealed last weekend are familiar to longtime fans, he continues to tweak these essential themes with laudable results.
      He's not afraid of offending doom-and-gloomers or those truly dangerous people who wake up each morning sporting Cheshire-catlike grins and appearing intent on saving the planet's less-ecstatic (i.e. well-adjusted) folk with shallow platitudes and endless expressions of love.
      Not Louie, who never panders to his crowd no matter the situation.
      He started off slowly last weekend, first dusting off some of his more familiar gambling bits -- i.e. elevator husband/wife battles over dwindling funds, the wrath incurred at blackjack tables when he splits 20s ("You're messing things up for the rest of the table!") and other faux pas.
      "I just love it when I hear people say, `Oh, we don't gamble, we just come here to eat and see the shows,' " Anderson said with a subtle smirk. "Oh, shut up! You might as well stay home," is his desired response, though it's doubtful he'd ever be so blunt to strangers. Anderson doesn't get specific about people that annoy him; instead, he uses them in general terms to reflect human nature.
      For example, he promises success and lines out the doors to the first casino that haughtily reveals the truth with signs flashing "Don't Come In, You Can't Win!" He drew big laughs about a gambling loser who balks at spending nearly $90 to see "Siegfried & Roy," prompting his wife to declare, "You could have bought a white tiger with all the money you lost!"
      Anderson's confiding approach pulls people closer, and his gambling jokes become a strength even if they're essentially unchanged from his days at Bally's. They took up almost half of his one-hour set before turning his keen observational eye on growing up in a dysfunctional family dominated by an abusive and alcoholic father.
      He first bantered to good effect with individuals in the crowd -- "You're from San Jose? ... That's a place people drive through to get somewhere." -- then drew audible gasps by revealing that, as a child, he wished his parents would die in dreadful fashion.
      His you-can't-make-this-stuff-up stance allowed him to recall how his mother sent him his late father's false teeth for reasons that remain unclear. His father was a pack rat, who furnished the house via visits to the local dump; his mom would snatch salt and pepper shakers at every restaurant; and his strained relationship with Pops would have benefited from Dad smoking marijuana ("Isn't it about time we legalized it?") instead of drinking from dawn 'til dark.
      "We could have talked about the beginning of time instead of hearing him ask, `Do you remember when?' or wondering aloud where one of his shoes might be hiding."
      The rubbery-faced Anderson made few, if any, jokes about his bulk, proving that big people need not use their weight as a comedic hook. He's also amazingly skilled at using his face to reflect varied emotions with subtle grace and nuance.
      Dressed nicely in gray slacks and a navy blue sport coat -- someone finally got him to dispose of tennis shoes as stage attire -- Anderson moved gently across the stage and, being a clean comic, twice paused in midsentence to soften punch lines that might have offended someone. He cares about his audience and the feeling is mutual as he shares snippets of his life with childlike candor.
      Yes, the rather rugged family stuff isn't going to delight those who never faced adversity, but Anderson isn't trying to evoke sympathy or cheap laughs.
      There's a deeper meaning as he relays some of the uglier material, specifically that functional families and loving parents can make all the difference to a youngster. He was still lending darkly funny details when he paused, looked at the audience, and asked parents to treat their kids with the respect and kindness lacking in his own upbringing.
      Then he left the stage with a brief goodbye wave. No final punch line. No encore necessary. Anderson shared his life and made his points without sacrificing the ever-crucial laughter that keeps the crowds coming. Deservedly, he'll work Las Vegas as long as he wants.
      Rating: three stars
     
      Michael Paskevich's entertainment column appears Fridays and Sundays.